This morning has been spent on my PC. Last night I realised my Real Player Library had corrupted (again) and I thought 'right, bugger it' and removed it from my computer this morning. I then spent about an hour trying to figure out Windows Media Player. All I wanted to do was burn a CD of some chill out music that I'm really enjoying at the moment. Media doesn't half make it complicated. The menus are unhelpful and I don't really care that they're all groovy and animated, I just want to get where I'm going in as few clicks as possible. I tried to use the software I got with my MP3 player, but not surprisingly, it might be happy ripping CDs, it doesn't do burning. *sigh*
In the end I re-installed Real Player.
So I'm pretty much exactly where I started at the beginning of the day. The only good thing I can say about this morning's activity is the Library in Real Player is now working again, and this newest version seems to be a little more groovy than the old.
Oh yeah, did I mention I have an assignment to do by the 6th of December? As you can see, there are somethings that don't change about me. My procrastination skills are legendary. Speaking of which it's time to kick some Oblivion arse.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Progress Report
Another good day, this time at college. I'm beginning to get the hang of the logic behind the Adobe software, which is amazing, but does require you to turn into a bit of a geek. I'm not even a baby-geek at the moment, but at least I can do some of what I want, which is a bit of a start. After the various software inductions last week I came home and poured myself a large one.
Also, last month I applied to be part of the Graduate Teaching Associates. Basically, it's where they pay you to become a teaching assistant/lecturer. There are only 6 positions within the college and the competition for them is fierce. I didn't even get a look in. Which considering the extra days I'm currently doing at work, which will increase during December, is not necessarily a bad thing. But that didn't stop me being gutted all the same. Monday I bumped into my old Course Leader and gave him my tale of woe, he said I could pop in and see him, any time. Today, I went to him and said 'it's not that I'm desperate, or overly keen, but...can I have some teaching experience?' It will have to be done volutarily, simply because the course just doesn't have the money in the budget, but, it does mean that next year when I apply for the position again, my CV will look brilliant and I'll have a much better chance at landing GTA. I must admit I am dead chuffed that they were keen to have me back. It's always good to feel wanted.
On another note, I bumped into an ex of mine this afternoon. I was making my way from the Post-Grad Centre, to my 16.15 meeting with my current Course Leader, I had just done a load of work for my Core Unit and was feeling very pleased with myself for a) getting that done and b) for getting the dance mix on my MP3 player right for my mood. I was dodging puddles and humming along to Royksopp when there was this man, who looked slightly familiar. He stumbled slightly and then we made eye contact.
I try not to regret the daft things I've done, the poor choices which I've made out of poor judgement. After all, everything is a learning experience and from bad experiences comes good judgement. However, he remains my one true regret, the only mistake I wish I could go back and undo. He really wiped the floor with me, pretty much ruined my chance at a career. A lot of innocent people were hurt in the fall out. In the time since we split, I've always wondered what would have happened if I'd been smarter. Today, I looked at him as we exchanged pleasantries, and realised how much I have achieved. He asked me how I was doing, and I began rattling off the stuff I had done since, the degree I got, the MA I was working towards. Nothing much had changed for him, except he got older and wider.
Actually, it isn't about the fact that today I was feeling really good and he just looked tired, though there is a little bit of that floating about - I'm sure I warned you I'm not a nice person - but it was more about the fact that I am exactly where I want to be. I'm so glad I'm not working in that office, feeling crap about the work, crap about the people I work with. I'm doing a part-time job I really love doing, even with the recent upheaval at work. I'm doing a course that challenges me creatively and intellectually. My Boy is fabulous and next week will be 14 (OMG). I'm in a relationship which is healthy and stable and a lot of fun.
Yeah, the miseries do hound me; but I'm still hanging in there. I'm doing alright. Many thanks to the Universe for pointing that one out to me.
Also, last month I applied to be part of the Graduate Teaching Associates. Basically, it's where they pay you to become a teaching assistant/lecturer. There are only 6 positions within the college and the competition for them is fierce. I didn't even get a look in. Which considering the extra days I'm currently doing at work, which will increase during December, is not necessarily a bad thing. But that didn't stop me being gutted all the same. Monday I bumped into my old Course Leader and gave him my tale of woe, he said I could pop in and see him, any time. Today, I went to him and said 'it's not that I'm desperate, or overly keen, but...can I have some teaching experience?' It will have to be done volutarily, simply because the course just doesn't have the money in the budget, but, it does mean that next year when I apply for the position again, my CV will look brilliant and I'll have a much better chance at landing GTA. I must admit I am dead chuffed that they were keen to have me back. It's always good to feel wanted.
On another note, I bumped into an ex of mine this afternoon. I was making my way from the Post-Grad Centre, to my 16.15 meeting with my current Course Leader, I had just done a load of work for my Core Unit and was feeling very pleased with myself for a) getting that done and b) for getting the dance mix on my MP3 player right for my mood. I was dodging puddles and humming along to Royksopp when there was this man, who looked slightly familiar. He stumbled slightly and then we made eye contact.
I try not to regret the daft things I've done, the poor choices which I've made out of poor judgement. After all, everything is a learning experience and from bad experiences comes good judgement. However, he remains my one true regret, the only mistake I wish I could go back and undo. He really wiped the floor with me, pretty much ruined my chance at a career. A lot of innocent people were hurt in the fall out. In the time since we split, I've always wondered what would have happened if I'd been smarter. Today, I looked at him as we exchanged pleasantries, and realised how much I have achieved. He asked me how I was doing, and I began rattling off the stuff I had done since, the degree I got, the MA I was working towards. Nothing much had changed for him, except he got older and wider.
Actually, it isn't about the fact that today I was feeling really good and he just looked tired, though there is a little bit of that floating about - I'm sure I warned you I'm not a nice person - but it was more about the fact that I am exactly where I want to be. I'm so glad I'm not working in that office, feeling crap about the work, crap about the people I work with. I'm doing a part-time job I really love doing, even with the recent upheaval at work. I'm doing a course that challenges me creatively and intellectually. My Boy is fabulous and next week will be 14 (OMG). I'm in a relationship which is healthy and stable and a lot of fun.
Yeah, the miseries do hound me; but I'm still hanging in there. I'm doing alright. Many thanks to the Universe for pointing that one out to me.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Still Standing
It's a funny thing hitting rock bottom, once you get there it's quite comfortable and warm. There are no more expectations, no targets, nothing can be achieved so there's no point worrying. In this space it's possible to breathe.
Then stuff starts to happen, to fall into place. Things that I was struggling to do, got done with minimum of fuss and exertion. My energy levels are still rubbish, I still feel really tired, but not so ground down.
We're getting more busy at work as we gear up for the Christmas rush. Unfortunately, thanks to interest rates, housing prices, Northern Rock and the pending apocalypse, we just aren't busy enough. The New Management are pushing targets, targets, targets, but it's difficult to sell to people who aren't there. The people who do wander in are being crafty shoppers and are making price comparisons. How can an independent department store can compete in prices with the likes of Boots, Savers and Superdrug? We've got several offers on at the moment, but I'm not convinced it'll be enough.
Anyway, for those of you thinking of buying fragrance for loved ones this Christmas, look out for gift sets. They work out very good value for money, for £2 or £3 extra, there's usually a body product as well as the perfume in a flashy presentation box. And if you buy your fragrance from me, I'll even gift wrap it for you.
Then stuff starts to happen, to fall into place. Things that I was struggling to do, got done with minimum of fuss and exertion. My energy levels are still rubbish, I still feel really tired, but not so ground down.
We're getting more busy at work as we gear up for the Christmas rush. Unfortunately, thanks to interest rates, housing prices, Northern Rock and the pending apocalypse, we just aren't busy enough. The New Management are pushing targets, targets, targets, but it's difficult to sell to people who aren't there. The people who do wander in are being crafty shoppers and are making price comparisons. How can an independent department store can compete in prices with the likes of Boots, Savers and Superdrug? We've got several offers on at the moment, but I'm not convinced it'll be enough.
Anyway, for those of you thinking of buying fragrance for loved ones this Christmas, look out for gift sets. They work out very good value for money, for £2 or £3 extra, there's usually a body product as well as the perfume in a flashy presentation box. And if you buy your fragrance from me, I'll even gift wrap it for you.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Brick Wall *apply head here*
Do you ever have the feeling that you'd achieve more in life, if you'd just walk out in front of a large moving object? I'm struggling at the moment. Part of the problem...actually, the whole of my problem is ME. I just don't seem to have the energy levels to achieve anything at the moment and I'm making stupid mistakes and procrastinating dangerously with tasks which will prove costly to me.
I'm now doing 4 days a week at work - to be increased to 5, plus my day at college. Our diet is rubbish. I'm behind in my college work. The outstanding stuff is so horrendous, I'm just going to continue to stick my bum in the air and keep my head firmly buried in the sand.
The trouble is I don't know what else to do. I can't not do the college stuff, because that way lies more fulfilling employment, or rather employment where I don't have to stand 7.5 hours a day, for not a lot of money. I can't not do the employment, well, cause, I suppose I need to feed Boy, keep a roof over his head and keep us clothed. Having said that, I'd do all of that a lot better if only I stopped the retail therapy. Honestly, did I really need that pot of Wild Rose face-mask?
Realistically speaking, it's just my Self-Pity Gnome come round for a quick cup of tea and bickie. The sun will come out tomorrow. I will feel better after that whinge. So there.
I'm now doing 4 days a week at work - to be increased to 5, plus my day at college. Our diet is rubbish. I'm behind in my college work. The outstanding stuff is so horrendous, I'm just going to continue to stick my bum in the air and keep my head firmly buried in the sand.
The trouble is I don't know what else to do. I can't not do the college stuff, because that way lies more fulfilling employment, or rather employment where I don't have to stand 7.5 hours a day, for not a lot of money. I can't not do the employment, well, cause, I suppose I need to feed Boy, keep a roof over his head and keep us clothed. Having said that, I'd do all of that a lot better if only I stopped the retail therapy. Honestly, did I really need that pot of Wild Rose face-mask?
Realistically speaking, it's just my Self-Pity Gnome come round for a quick cup of tea and bickie. The sun will come out tomorrow. I will feel better after that whinge. So there.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Dear Richard Branson (again),
You're having a laugh aren't you? It was only 6 weeks ago that I wrote to you about the very poor service I had, and here I am having to write to you, yet again.
The new box your engineer fit 6 weeks ago after the death of my old one, is behaving like my bank manager when I plead for an extention to my over-draft - it does not respond. It stopped talking to Boy and me last week. After we spent many happy hours unplugging cables and fanning the hot box and could not even coax a 'hello' out of it, I rang your jolly customer service line. This time I was prepared for the runaround of your call-centre staff who, to be fair, were much nicer than Rollo. I saved my breath about the 4 hour service slots and was surprised when I was offered a Saturday slot, such a shame I'm now working Saturdays. Never mind. I agreed I'd wait in on Monday (i.e. today) between 8 and 12. And jolly fun I had waiting as well.
I rang your lovely people in Mumbai at 11.50, to ask about the probability of the engineer turning up in the next 10 minutes. Imagine my surprise when I was told he'd been cancelled because the fault in my postcode was fixed. You would be so proud of me Richard. I did not swear, shout or scream. I explained to the very nice man at the other end of the world that I was switching on my television and my box and if there was no service he would immediately transfer me to his manager. Bless him. He did eventually put me through to his manager.
Your manager really thought I would give a flying fuck that he had been having similar calls from customers all day. Guess what? I told him exactly what I thought of Virgin Media and how unhappy I was to be paying for this kind of crap. Given my level of unhappiness, he did agree not to charge me for the days I do not have a tv, and he will pay me £10 for the engineer's no show. But quite frankly, it's little compensation for the crap service I've had since you decided to expand your empire into telecommunications.
It turns out that the engineers may or may not go to a call-out if a customer requests a particular time within a 4 hour slot. The call centre can only flag requests, they can't enforce it. So, one part of your organisation doesn't really communicate well with the other. But I suppose that shouldn't come as any real surprise to me, since you can't organise a piss-up in a brewery.
Because I work for a living, the next available time when I will be home is next Monday, and no, I'm not prepared to go to my employers and ask for time off to get my damned telly fixed. Tell me something Richard, given that most people work 9 to 5, and that commutes can take anywhere between 10 minutes and 2 hours, it's not very realistic for you to expect your customers to be home between 8am and 7pm, with 4 hours to spare at either end. As a single parent, whose family lives in Trinidad, it's a bit difficult to ask them to pop round and sit in for me.
Rest assured Richard, the next time I have reason to call your customer service centre it will be to have your dodgy equipment removed, because I have better things to do with my time.
Yours,
Roses
The new box your engineer fit 6 weeks ago after the death of my old one, is behaving like my bank manager when I plead for an extention to my over-draft - it does not respond. It stopped talking to Boy and me last week. After we spent many happy hours unplugging cables and fanning the hot box and could not even coax a 'hello' out of it, I rang your jolly customer service line. This time I was prepared for the runaround of your call-centre staff who, to be fair, were much nicer than Rollo. I saved my breath about the 4 hour service slots and was surprised when I was offered a Saturday slot, such a shame I'm now working Saturdays. Never mind. I agreed I'd wait in on Monday (i.e. today) between 8 and 12. And jolly fun I had waiting as well.
I rang your lovely people in Mumbai at 11.50, to ask about the probability of the engineer turning up in the next 10 minutes. Imagine my surprise when I was told he'd been cancelled because the fault in my postcode was fixed. You would be so proud of me Richard. I did not swear, shout or scream. I explained to the very nice man at the other end of the world that I was switching on my television and my box and if there was no service he would immediately transfer me to his manager. Bless him. He did eventually put me through to his manager.
Your manager really thought I would give a flying fuck that he had been having similar calls from customers all day. Guess what? I told him exactly what I thought of Virgin Media and how unhappy I was to be paying for this kind of crap. Given my level of unhappiness, he did agree not to charge me for the days I do not have a tv, and he will pay me £10 for the engineer's no show. But quite frankly, it's little compensation for the crap service I've had since you decided to expand your empire into telecommunications.
It turns out that the engineers may or may not go to a call-out if a customer requests a particular time within a 4 hour slot. The call centre can only flag requests, they can't enforce it. So, one part of your organisation doesn't really communicate well with the other. But I suppose that shouldn't come as any real surprise to me, since you can't organise a piss-up in a brewery.
Because I work for a living, the next available time when I will be home is next Monday, and no, I'm not prepared to go to my employers and ask for time off to get my damned telly fixed. Tell me something Richard, given that most people work 9 to 5, and that commutes can take anywhere between 10 minutes and 2 hours, it's not very realistic for you to expect your customers to be home between 8am and 7pm, with 4 hours to spare at either end. As a single parent, whose family lives in Trinidad, it's a bit difficult to ask them to pop round and sit in for me.
Rest assured Richard, the next time I have reason to call your customer service centre it will be to have your dodgy equipment removed, because I have better things to do with my time.
Yours,
Roses
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Training Day
Yesterday, I extracted myself out of bed at stupid o'clock to head down to London for a perfumery training day. All in all, it was a lot of fun. There's something magical being up before the sun has properly risen, when it's a winters day, the mist lying in the frosty fields and over mirrored ponds. I took my camera with me and got a couple of quite arty shots from the train. Boy quite liked them when I showed them to him last night. As the training started at 10am, I managed to miss the bulk of the commuter crush going down, for which I am grateful. I don't like crowds at the best of times and the thought of fighting up in the tube at that time, did not fill me with a great deal of warmth and joy.
I arrived in Liverpool Street on time and rushed to get to the tube. I'd worked out my route the night before on the internet, so I knew which line I wanted and the train. I had a quick check on the map, scurried off to the platform and pushed my way onto the train. Unfortunately, their idea of westbound and my idea of westbound were two different things: at the next stop, I realised I was going the wrong way. Out I got, practically ran up the steps to the other platform and waited for the train going the other way. Fortunately, it wasn't long and I got to the hotel on time for a cup of coffee and biscuits before we got stuck in.
I've been to quite a few training sessions, I've even delivered a few. So when I say yesterday was fun, informative and the trainers great, I do believe I know what I'm saying. The trainers led us through some of the different fragrances on offer and taught us about their development, history and occasional anecdotes about the designers. It was my first proper perfumery training and I found that I wasn't as ignorant as I first thought. The information I've been reading has actually lodged itself into my brain, I'm no longer bullshitting my customers blindly. I can now bullshit with style and expertise. During the course of the day we had opportunities to win goodies, try the various fragrances and body products as well as taking away a goody bag filled with training notes, posters and, well.....goodies.
The journey home was fun. I spent some time people watching and doing some journal writing. I was able to take some time to think about what it was that so moved me about fragrance that cosmetics and fashion has not been able to do. I realised that perfume is good for your well-being. It's not about anti-aging, making you appear years younger, tightening the saggy bits. Fragrance doesn't rely on your dress sense, or sense of style. Anyone can wear a fragrance, regardless of their looks, social status, gender, sexual orientation. I'm not so naive that I don't recognise there is a link between these things. I know people buy a fragrance hoping to buy into the designer experience, and a fragrance is often designed with this in mind. However, I do believe it is possible to step out of fragrance in this fashion sense. I know this is stepping out of the mainstream idea of perfume and where it sits in fashion, but I am coming at it from a different perspective. I am not trendy, young or even vaguely fashionable. My dress sense is dictated by comfort and what goes with jeans and comfortable shoes. I do not possess a genuine designer anything.
I suppose I'm thinking about fragrance in a more of an inclusive way, it embraces rather than excludes. A fragrance won't care how a woman looks, how old she is, how much money she has. It will smell fabulous on her, or it won't. Therefore, by wearing a fragrance, a woman or man, is making a statement about their personality, their self-esteem, their sensuality. It is possible to be completely skint and to still wear a scent, if only a dab of sandalwood essential oil on your pulse points. I have customers who are highly allergic to some of the ingredients in fragrance and it's a real tragedy for them, they feel as if they are missing out on an experience. In these cases, I always point them towards perfumers who pay attention to quality ingredients and to essential oils.
Fragrance is a sensual experience, best worn on your skin. It's something first and foremost for you to enjoy. A fragrance will react to your stress levels, for women - where you are in your monthly cycle and in your life-cycle, a fragrance will react to your diet. So whatever a fragrance smells like in the bottle, on a piece of card, it only really comes to life on the warmth of your skin. Despite the trend for celebrity fragrance, a person has to genuinely like a perfume to wear it. While there are trends in fragrance, it's not possible to fake liking a fragrance. I dare anyone to wear a fragrance they loathe and to try repeat the experience. You might make a mistake, but you won't want to do it again. There's nothing worse than putting on something which is your olfactory equivalent of Cat's Piss.
A year ago, if you would have told me I would become so passionate about fragrance, I would have laughed at you. Amazing isn't it, what life brings your way? Even if I stop working in perfume, I think I've now got a life-long obsession. No one ever need worry about what to get me for Christmas and birthday now.
I arrived in Liverpool Street on time and rushed to get to the tube. I'd worked out my route the night before on the internet, so I knew which line I wanted and the train. I had a quick check on the map, scurried off to the platform and pushed my way onto the train. Unfortunately, their idea of westbound and my idea of westbound were two different things: at the next stop, I realised I was going the wrong way. Out I got, practically ran up the steps to the other platform and waited for the train going the other way. Fortunately, it wasn't long and I got to the hotel on time for a cup of coffee and biscuits before we got stuck in.
I've been to quite a few training sessions, I've even delivered a few. So when I say yesterday was fun, informative and the trainers great, I do believe I know what I'm saying. The trainers led us through some of the different fragrances on offer and taught us about their development, history and occasional anecdotes about the designers. It was my first proper perfumery training and I found that I wasn't as ignorant as I first thought. The information I've been reading has actually lodged itself into my brain, I'm no longer bullshitting my customers blindly. I can now bullshit with style and expertise. During the course of the day we had opportunities to win goodies, try the various fragrances and body products as well as taking away a goody bag filled with training notes, posters and, well.....goodies.
The journey home was fun. I spent some time people watching and doing some journal writing. I was able to take some time to think about what it was that so moved me about fragrance that cosmetics and fashion has not been able to do. I realised that perfume is good for your well-being. It's not about anti-aging, making you appear years younger, tightening the saggy bits. Fragrance doesn't rely on your dress sense, or sense of style. Anyone can wear a fragrance, regardless of their looks, social status, gender, sexual orientation. I'm not so naive that I don't recognise there is a link between these things. I know people buy a fragrance hoping to buy into the designer experience, and a fragrance is often designed with this in mind. However, I do believe it is possible to step out of fragrance in this fashion sense. I know this is stepping out of the mainstream idea of perfume and where it sits in fashion, but I am coming at it from a different perspective. I am not trendy, young or even vaguely fashionable. My dress sense is dictated by comfort and what goes with jeans and comfortable shoes. I do not possess a genuine designer anything.
I suppose I'm thinking about fragrance in a more of an inclusive way, it embraces rather than excludes. A fragrance won't care how a woman looks, how old she is, how much money she has. It will smell fabulous on her, or it won't. Therefore, by wearing a fragrance, a woman or man, is making a statement about their personality, their self-esteem, their sensuality. It is possible to be completely skint and to still wear a scent, if only a dab of sandalwood essential oil on your pulse points. I have customers who are highly allergic to some of the ingredients in fragrance and it's a real tragedy for them, they feel as if they are missing out on an experience. In these cases, I always point them towards perfumers who pay attention to quality ingredients and to essential oils.
Fragrance is a sensual experience, best worn on your skin. It's something first and foremost for you to enjoy. A fragrance will react to your stress levels, for women - where you are in your monthly cycle and in your life-cycle, a fragrance will react to your diet. So whatever a fragrance smells like in the bottle, on a piece of card, it only really comes to life on the warmth of your skin. Despite the trend for celebrity fragrance, a person has to genuinely like a perfume to wear it. While there are trends in fragrance, it's not possible to fake liking a fragrance. I dare anyone to wear a fragrance they loathe and to try repeat the experience. You might make a mistake, but you won't want to do it again. There's nothing worse than putting on something which is your olfactory equivalent of Cat's Piss.
A year ago, if you would have told me I would become so passionate about fragrance, I would have laughed at you. Amazing isn't it, what life brings your way? Even if I stop working in perfume, I think I've now got a life-long obsession. No one ever need worry about what to get me for Christmas and birthday now.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Bad Dreams
I didn't sleep very well last night. That's not unusual really, I tend to be a light sleeper and sleeping with a cat pinning your legs down means surfacing into wakefulness every now and then to turn over. I have weird dreams all the time, some more bizarre than others, generally speaking it doesn't bother me one way or another.
Sometimes I have monster dreams, those tend not to bother me either, because I turn into a less-busty version of Lara Croft and do some serious butt kicking. I also have flying dreams which I love. Though having said that, they tend to be big jumping dreams where I'm making gigantic leaps across the landscape, soaring through the clouds (with no turbulence). I often have dreams about Trinidad and my childhood, I revist my grandmother's house for a spot of afternoon tea which was always the highlight of my stay with her. She used to make platted bread for me for the event, and she had to have a pot spoon at hand to beat me away from the cooling bread. It's always lovely to see her again, she looks well and happy.
We've been making our way through the Alien Quadrilogy, which has been a feat of endurance for me. I scare easily watching films. I'm not keen on watching people getting hacked to death, tortured, raped, enslaved or humilliated, which means that most of the time I don't watch horror or thrillers. I do love reading them though. Give me a good horror or thriller to read and I'm a very happy bunny. I suppose reading 'he screamed as the monster from hell ate his arm' is not as scary as seeing the blood gushing from the severed arm, quivering in the jaws of the salivating monster and hearing the pain and fear from the owner of said arm. I'm also a sucker for movie music, the minute the music starts to go menacing, I'm quivering behind the nearest strong shoulder, cushion, cat or doorway.
The last time I tried to watch Alien, it was 1992 and I only managed to watch it as far as when the baby alien's shed skin was found by the guy who was looking for a kitty cat. At that point I fled to read a book in bed, far away from the movie playing downstairs. So I'm rather proud of myself being able to watch it start to finish, albeit behind the doorway, the Viking, the Boy, the cat and the cushion. Boy and I have now watched Alien 2 and are part-way through Alien 3, but Boy got tired and I really didn't want to watch it on my own.
A few years ago I did watch some of Saw, and thought it was the most gruesome film ever. Obviously I was wrong, because they've released Saws 2, 3 and 4. I'm really freaked out by Japanese-inspired horror, that is truly scary. I saw the American version of the Grudge and although I kept expecting Sarah Michelle Gellar to leap up and stake the ghosts, it was creepy, creepy, creepy. The Viking is threatening to bring The Ring down for us to watch. I suppose it'll be good for a laugh - for them.
Sometimes I have monster dreams, those tend not to bother me either, because I turn into a less-busty version of Lara Croft and do some serious butt kicking. I also have flying dreams which I love. Though having said that, they tend to be big jumping dreams where I'm making gigantic leaps across the landscape, soaring through the clouds (with no turbulence). I often have dreams about Trinidad and my childhood, I revist my grandmother's house for a spot of afternoon tea which was always the highlight of my stay with her. She used to make platted bread for me for the event, and she had to have a pot spoon at hand to beat me away from the cooling bread. It's always lovely to see her again, she looks well and happy.
We've been making our way through the Alien Quadrilogy, which has been a feat of endurance for me. I scare easily watching films. I'm not keen on watching people getting hacked to death, tortured, raped, enslaved or humilliated, which means that most of the time I don't watch horror or thrillers. I do love reading them though. Give me a good horror or thriller to read and I'm a very happy bunny. I suppose reading 'he screamed as the monster from hell ate his arm' is not as scary as seeing the blood gushing from the severed arm, quivering in the jaws of the salivating monster and hearing the pain and fear from the owner of said arm. I'm also a sucker for movie music, the minute the music starts to go menacing, I'm quivering behind the nearest strong shoulder, cushion, cat or doorway.
The last time I tried to watch Alien, it was 1992 and I only managed to watch it as far as when the baby alien's shed skin was found by the guy who was looking for a kitty cat. At that point I fled to read a book in bed, far away from the movie playing downstairs. So I'm rather proud of myself being able to watch it start to finish, albeit behind the doorway, the Viking, the Boy, the cat and the cushion. Boy and I have now watched Alien 2 and are part-way through Alien 3, but Boy got tired and I really didn't want to watch it on my own.
A few years ago I did watch some of Saw, and thought it was the most gruesome film ever. Obviously I was wrong, because they've released Saws 2, 3 and 4. I'm really freaked out by Japanese-inspired horror, that is truly scary. I saw the American version of the Grudge and although I kept expecting Sarah Michelle Gellar to leap up and stake the ghosts, it was creepy, creepy, creepy. The Viking is threatening to bring The Ring down for us to watch. I suppose it'll be good for a laugh - for them.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Pink Fluffy Dressing Gown
Today is a lazy day. I intended to loads, but I'm still sat in my dressing gown: life is good. I'm obviously not at work, I don't think they'd appreciate the sight of me in my strippy socks. I was very naughty this morning. I went back to bed and didn't crawl out of it until 10.30ish. The shock. It's funny, but as nice as it was to stay longer in my beddies, I don't feel any the better for it. My brain still feels mushy. Having said that, I suspect that comes from running around like a blue-arsed fly for most of the time.
Work has been 'interesting', to say the least. Last month we had a change of management in the department and that's really set the cat amongst the pigeons. You will remember I'm not a huge fan of change. I like things to stay 'nice' preferably. I don't like shake ups, wake ups or break ups. I get stroppy without my anchors, my security blankets. October was a month of change. Hence me being a bit quiet as I sulked, moped and stared into the depths of my navel.
Alix is now safely ensconsed in London. She and Shizzle (her husband) found a fabulous flat exactly where they wanted to be, within their budget - a feat considering London housing. I really miss her. It's a good thing that they've gone. But I wish she was still round the corner. I miss her smile, her brilliant hugs and her sense of humour. We didn't see that much of each other, both being busy at work and college, but I loved that we'd bump into each other and steal half and hour for coffee and naughty cake.
I started working part-time. I'm now on 3 days a week, which has come as a bit of a shock to the system. No more swanning about for me. In a couple of weeks, when the run up to Christmas really kicks off, I'll be doing 4 days and when December hits, I'll be doing 5 days. This working for a living lark is bloody knackering. I don't have time to think, much less do laundry, cook etc. I really need a live-in house keeper, or a wife. Actually, a wife would be great. At least then Boy could come home to someone, a decent meal and reasonable company. But I do the best I can with what I've got and he seems fairly chipper and I do have the world's best babysitter in the form of the XBox.
I've also been thinking about my life ahead and where it will lead. I've come to the conclusion that my days of happy homemaking (yeah right) are slipping further and further off into the distance. Boy will be leaving home in 4 years time as he embarks on his chosen path and that's got to be a good thing, but it does make me sad. I know I've talked about this before, endlessly, but when your life has revolved around another human being for whom you are responsible - it's a bit scary. The thought of always coming home just to the cat on a dark winter night, fills me with dread. I did not enjoy half-term without him, even though I was phenomenally busy with work and college.
But there freedom with that thought. I could do anything I wanted (money permitting). I could move to London, it wouldn't matter if I had to live in a shoe box. I could move back to Trinidad. I could move oop North. The world would become my oyster as long as I could embrace the irritation to create a pearl. I know that's four years' off, but I like to think about my bridges, and a lot might happen between now and then. Life has never quite managed follow through as expected with plans.
It was the fire festival of Samhain on Wednesday, which is a pretty big deal in the pagan calendar. It's the start of our new year. A time of opening your arms to let go the stuff that holds you back, keeps and lets you down. With open arms you can embrace the opportunities and challenges that life sends to you. It's also the last time the Norwich Chant Collective will meet in that form. We've been going now for 9 years and people have moved on, changed, moved away. Time to let it go, see what else comes to take it's place. No longer will I be trouping out Wednesday nights to give voice to chants. *sniff*
So that's why I've been a bit absent. Did you miss me?
Work has been 'interesting', to say the least. Last month we had a change of management in the department and that's really set the cat amongst the pigeons. You will remember I'm not a huge fan of change. I like things to stay 'nice' preferably. I don't like shake ups, wake ups or break ups. I get stroppy without my anchors, my security blankets. October was a month of change. Hence me being a bit quiet as I sulked, moped and stared into the depths of my navel.
Alix is now safely ensconsed in London. She and Shizzle (her husband) found a fabulous flat exactly where they wanted to be, within their budget - a feat considering London housing. I really miss her. It's a good thing that they've gone. But I wish she was still round the corner. I miss her smile, her brilliant hugs and her sense of humour. We didn't see that much of each other, both being busy at work and college, but I loved that we'd bump into each other and steal half and hour for coffee and naughty cake.
I started working part-time. I'm now on 3 days a week, which has come as a bit of a shock to the system. No more swanning about for me. In a couple of weeks, when the run up to Christmas really kicks off, I'll be doing 4 days and when December hits, I'll be doing 5 days. This working for a living lark is bloody knackering. I don't have time to think, much less do laundry, cook etc. I really need a live-in house keeper, or a wife. Actually, a wife would be great. At least then Boy could come home to someone, a decent meal and reasonable company. But I do the best I can with what I've got and he seems fairly chipper and I do have the world's best babysitter in the form of the XBox.
I've also been thinking about my life ahead and where it will lead. I've come to the conclusion that my days of happy homemaking (yeah right) are slipping further and further off into the distance. Boy will be leaving home in 4 years time as he embarks on his chosen path and that's got to be a good thing, but it does make me sad. I know I've talked about this before, endlessly, but when your life has revolved around another human being for whom you are responsible - it's a bit scary. The thought of always coming home just to the cat on a dark winter night, fills me with dread. I did not enjoy half-term without him, even though I was phenomenally busy with work and college.
But there freedom with that thought. I could do anything I wanted (money permitting). I could move to London, it wouldn't matter if I had to live in a shoe box. I could move back to Trinidad. I could move oop North. The world would become my oyster as long as I could embrace the irritation to create a pearl. I know that's four years' off, but I like to think about my bridges, and a lot might happen between now and then. Life has never quite managed follow through as expected with plans.
It was the fire festival of Samhain on Wednesday, which is a pretty big deal in the pagan calendar. It's the start of our new year. A time of opening your arms to let go the stuff that holds you back, keeps and lets you down. With open arms you can embrace the opportunities and challenges that life sends to you. It's also the last time the Norwich Chant Collective will meet in that form. We've been going now for 9 years and people have moved on, changed, moved away. Time to let it go, see what else comes to take it's place. No longer will I be trouping out Wednesday nights to give voice to chants. *sniff*
So that's why I've been a bit absent. Did you miss me?
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tagged!
I got tagged by Mousie, so as promised this is my response.
Four Childhood Books
Children of Greene Knowe by Lucy M Boston. I loved the descriptions of the magical, yet realistic manor house. To this day I still have a thing about peacock cries. There were 6 in the series, I think I've probably read 4 of them.
Green Eggs and Ham by Dr Seuss. I love Dr Seuss, the humour, the word play and the zany illustrations. This was one of the books that my mum and I used to read together and if I'd borrow it from the school library, if I thought she needed perking up. I'm also rather fond of his Dr Seuss' ABC.
My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara. I was horse mad while I was growing up, but was never allowed to take up riding, so I compensated with reading lots of horsey books. This was my favourite series. I could really understand the familial tension and I loved the fact that the horses were always horses, not cutesy Disney animals or like Black Beauty.
Famous Five by Enid Blyton. I know it's not terribly correct, to like Enid Blyton, but she told marvelous stories about the 5 friends and the adventures they had. For someone without close friends living in the tropics, this was all very exotic.
Nancy Drew by Carolyn Keene. Though I also loved the Hardy Boys and Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Detectives. I do like a good mystery and they were brilliant romps.
Damn. I can't count!
Four Authors I'll read Again and Again.
David Gemmell. Bring on the Hero fiction. Tales of brawny, moody men, powerful women, sword fights, good agains evil, sorcery, love and loss. The world has lost one of it's finest fantasy writers.
Gerald Durrell. He combined travel writing with conservation, writing about people and the animals he collected with compassion and humour. I never got to go to his zoo in Jersey while he was alive, I will go. One day.
Minette Walters. Writes amazing thrillers. Has written a couple duds, but her duds are still head and shoulders above most.
Isabel Allende. An amazing talent for magical realism, damn good stories, amazing characters.
Four Authors I'll Never Read Again.
Dan Brown. Writes eye-wateringly bad prose, his books have one plot and that he nicks...sorry researches from other people.
Mo Hayden. Gratuitous violence against women. Unspeakably awful.
Kate Mosse. You read right and it's not the model. I was given Labyrinth by a friend and asked not to return it. A couple of months later, another friend gave me her copy under the same terms, she drove off with me running after her waving the book. I've never got further than page 2.
John Fowles. Pompous ass.
The First Four on My to-be Read List.
Troy: fall of Kings - David Gemmell.
The Mission Song - the new John Le Carre novel.
Castle of Crossed Destinies - Italo Calvino.
The New York Trilogy - Paul Auster.
Four Books I'd Take to a Desert Island.
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee.
My Family and Other Animals - Gerald Durrell.
The Constant Gardner - John Le Carre.
The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters.
To share the love, I'll tag: ing, Hottie, Gertie and Britswitch.
Four Childhood Books
Children of Greene Knowe by Lucy M Boston. I loved the descriptions of the magical, yet realistic manor house. To this day I still have a thing about peacock cries. There were 6 in the series, I think I've probably read 4 of them.
Green Eggs and Ham by Dr Seuss. I love Dr Seuss, the humour, the word play and the zany illustrations. This was one of the books that my mum and I used to read together and if I'd borrow it from the school library, if I thought she needed perking up. I'm also rather fond of his Dr Seuss' ABC.
My Friend Flicka by Mary O'Hara. I was horse mad while I was growing up, but was never allowed to take up riding, so I compensated with reading lots of horsey books. This was my favourite series. I could really understand the familial tension and I loved the fact that the horses were always horses, not cutesy Disney animals or like Black Beauty.
Famous Five by Enid Blyton. I know it's not terribly correct, to like Enid Blyton, but she told marvelous stories about the 5 friends and the adventures they had. For someone without close friends living in the tropics, this was all very exotic.
Nancy Drew by Carolyn Keene. Though I also loved the Hardy Boys and Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Detectives. I do like a good mystery and they were brilliant romps.
Damn. I can't count!
Four Authors I'll read Again and Again.
David Gemmell. Bring on the Hero fiction. Tales of brawny, moody men, powerful women, sword fights, good agains evil, sorcery, love and loss. The world has lost one of it's finest fantasy writers.
Gerald Durrell. He combined travel writing with conservation, writing about people and the animals he collected with compassion and humour. I never got to go to his zoo in Jersey while he was alive, I will go. One day.
Minette Walters. Writes amazing thrillers. Has written a couple duds, but her duds are still head and shoulders above most.
Isabel Allende. An amazing talent for magical realism, damn good stories, amazing characters.
Four Authors I'll Never Read Again.
Dan Brown. Writes eye-wateringly bad prose, his books have one plot and that he nicks...sorry researches from other people.
Mo Hayden. Gratuitous violence against women. Unspeakably awful.
Kate Mosse. You read right and it's not the model. I was given Labyrinth by a friend and asked not to return it. A couple of months later, another friend gave me her copy under the same terms, she drove off with me running after her waving the book. I've never got further than page 2.
John Fowles. Pompous ass.
The First Four on My to-be Read List.
Troy: fall of Kings - David Gemmell.
The Mission Song - the new John Le Carre novel.
Castle of Crossed Destinies - Italo Calvino.
The New York Trilogy - Paul Auster.
Four Books I'd Take to a Desert Island.
To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee.
My Family and Other Animals - Gerald Durrell.
The Constant Gardner - John Le Carre.
The Devil's Feather - Minette Walters.
To share the love, I'll tag: ing, Hottie, Gertie and Britswitch.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Adventures with Contact Lenses
I am quite short-sighted: -8 in one eye and -9 in another. Which if you're in the know, means glasses, even the super-expensive, thin ones, look like coke bottle bottoms. I've been wearing contact lenses since I was 15 and I've had various fun and games with them over the years, mostly titled: Hunt the Contact Lens.
About 4 years ago I changed opticians and I was introduced to the joys of gas permeable lenses that I could sleep in. Basically, it gives me perfect vision for 30 days of the month; I'm supposed to take them out 1 night a month, but I'm a bit haphazard with these things. You have no idea how wonderful it is to be able to wake up in the morning and everything is in focus. To be able to go to bed without having to muck about with fluids, containers and iddy biddy bits of plastic.
Contact lenses are a wonderous thing: as long as they stay put.
They do have a nasty habit of popping out at the most inopportune times. If I've rubbed my eyes, or something has made me blink suddenly, if they're a bit dry: they just leap out and head for the hills. It leaves me only able to see out of one eye while I gingerly pat the floor looking for the escapee. Sometimes a contact lens will decide that it's tired of hanging around my cornea and go for a walk around the white of my eye. That's just painful and it takes a bit of poking about to extract it.
Last night, I wake up at about 3.30am. It's dark, the cat is pinning my legs down in her usual fashion, I'm gratefull she's actually let me have half an inch of bed and a square of duvet. As I consider rolling over and going back to sleep, I realise when I look at the clock, things are a bit more fuzzy than usual. A fuzziness which is resolved as soon as I close one eye.
Shit.
I tentatively extract myself, risky business in itself. The lens could be anywhere: clinging to my pjs, hiding in my hair, lurking in the duvet. I envisage having to wake Boy up to play Hunt the Lens, at which he excels, having a life-time of experience of searching the floor for shiny scales. I think he's going to be such a fabulous boyfriend/husband when the time comes. He knows about answering insecure womens' questions 'of course your bum doesn't look big in that; but I did prefer the other trousers', he knows when to give hugs, chocolate and coffee depending on the mood/time of the month, and he likes hanging out with foul-mouthed women.
I switch the bathroom light on and stand there squinting and swearing until my eyes adjust. I then try and peer into a mirror to see if I can find said lens. This is made more difficult since my eyes are now watering because they really don't want to be open and exposed to so much light at that stupid time of the morning. When I finally spot the lens, trying to disappear round my eyeball, I fish it out. Unfortunately, it takes a running jump. Years of practice has me holding my breath to see if I can hear the damn thing hit the wooden floor. Did I mention the mirror is balance on the top of my toilet cistern and the loo seat is up? Thankfully, I hear it hit the floor and then spend ten minutes patting the floor, muttering under my breath. I did find it eventually. I was so disgusted with it, I took the other one out, cleaned and left them soaking while I went back to bed.
Needless to say I was awake for a good hour after my adventure. At least the clocks went back last night.
About 4 years ago I changed opticians and I was introduced to the joys of gas permeable lenses that I could sleep in. Basically, it gives me perfect vision for 30 days of the month; I'm supposed to take them out 1 night a month, but I'm a bit haphazard with these things. You have no idea how wonderful it is to be able to wake up in the morning and everything is in focus. To be able to go to bed without having to muck about with fluids, containers and iddy biddy bits of plastic.
Contact lenses are a wonderous thing: as long as they stay put.
They do have a nasty habit of popping out at the most inopportune times. If I've rubbed my eyes, or something has made me blink suddenly, if they're a bit dry: they just leap out and head for the hills. It leaves me only able to see out of one eye while I gingerly pat the floor looking for the escapee. Sometimes a contact lens will decide that it's tired of hanging around my cornea and go for a walk around the white of my eye. That's just painful and it takes a bit of poking about to extract it.
Last night, I wake up at about 3.30am. It's dark, the cat is pinning my legs down in her usual fashion, I'm gratefull she's actually let me have half an inch of bed and a square of duvet. As I consider rolling over and going back to sleep, I realise when I look at the clock, things are a bit more fuzzy than usual. A fuzziness which is resolved as soon as I close one eye.
Shit.
I tentatively extract myself, risky business in itself. The lens could be anywhere: clinging to my pjs, hiding in my hair, lurking in the duvet. I envisage having to wake Boy up to play Hunt the Lens, at which he excels, having a life-time of experience of searching the floor for shiny scales. I think he's going to be such a fabulous boyfriend/husband when the time comes. He knows about answering insecure womens' questions 'of course your bum doesn't look big in that; but I did prefer the other trousers', he knows when to give hugs, chocolate and coffee depending on the mood/time of the month, and he likes hanging out with foul-mouthed women.
I switch the bathroom light on and stand there squinting and swearing until my eyes adjust. I then try and peer into a mirror to see if I can find said lens. This is made more difficult since my eyes are now watering because they really don't want to be open and exposed to so much light at that stupid time of the morning. When I finally spot the lens, trying to disappear round my eyeball, I fish it out. Unfortunately, it takes a running jump. Years of practice has me holding my breath to see if I can hear the damn thing hit the wooden floor. Did I mention the mirror is balance on the top of my toilet cistern and the loo seat is up? Thankfully, I hear it hit the floor and then spend ten minutes patting the floor, muttering under my breath. I did find it eventually. I was so disgusted with it, I took the other one out, cleaned and left them soaking while I went back to bed.
Needless to say I was awake for a good hour after my adventure. At least the clocks went back last night.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Downtime
Rather than go on about work: frantic run up to Christmas, still no idea what's going on, or how I'm supposed to sort out paperwork, managing not to swing for bean counters who are jumped up jobsworthies. I thought I'd share our weekend away.
The Viking took me to Cardiff to see The Police. Yes, you read right. I went to The Police gig, with a policeman. See, I am keeping my sense of humour. We dashed out of Norwich after my day at college, though that soon turned to 'crawled', as we made our way round the M25 in rush hour traffic. We ended up staying in a small hotel in Cardiff Gates on the edge of a business estate.There were two disadvantages to chosing this hotel, though by the time my Viking booked the hotel, there wasn't much of a choice as 45,000 other people wanted to be there too. First, Cardiff wasn't easily accessibly. When the Viking rang up he was assured that there was a bus that ran not far from the hotel, I immediately thought - goodie. It turns out that the bus stop was a half-an hour walk away. We decided to take a taxi into town instead, far quicker. The Second, and most heinious of all: the hotel was drier than the Salt Lake Desert. There was no bar, no pub, no drinkies to be had at all! Bloody shocking I tell you. Yes, I did make my displeasure know. It's not that I'm a lush (she says typing as she sips a glass of something naughty), it was the principle of the thing. We were away for an off-white weekend (as opposed to dirty, because we had to come back on the Saturday), we should have been able to indulge in a little tipple, or three; damn it. I won't complain too much as the hotel room was clean and spacious, the breakfast not too bad at all, the staff smiled, and meant it.
Cardiff is a sneaky city. I didn't fall in love with it, the way I fell for Dublin, it kind of crept up on me, charming me with endearments and knowing smiles. The Viking wanted to do the Millenium thing by Cardiff Bay, where Torchwood is filmed, I wanted to do Cardiff Castle. So we started with the Millenium thing. It was a glorious day, really bright, but with just enough of a bite in the air to let you know it's Winter. I loved the towering water-feature opposite the massive Millenium Centre and took several arty shots of the Viking and I cuddled up in front. Cardiff Bay seems to be home to every chain except Wagamamas, which seemed a bit sad really, especially since I really fancied some chain noodles. The Bay was like glass and unfortunately we missed the chance to grab a water taxi to the Millenium Stadium, by 10 minutes. We popped into the Dr Who exhibition and got Hottie her very own sonic screwdriver and then made our way to the Castle by train.
The Castle was great. We took a tour round the Victorian House which really was designed and paid for by two men who had more money than taste. Hand on heart you couldn't even call them Chavs, because the family were really OLD money. But goodness. There were rooms painted in genuine gold leaf, with marble, carved wood, crystals, quite a few astrological symbols and a painted devil. I loved it; though I'm glad I didn't have to live in it, as I'm sure it would be a complete bugger to heat in the winter and I do like to keep warm. The guide was brilliant, knew his stuff and had a great sense of humour. By the way, if you'd like to rent the banquetting hall for a function, it'll only set you back £500 an hour, and be assured food and service is extra. After the tour we went into the Keep, Viking leaping and bounding, me following very tentatively. I don't like heights and rickety wooden stairs.
By the time we were chucked out of there I was ready for a drink and we talked about heading over to the Millenium Stadium to the gig. Doors opened at 16.30, but as we had named, nosebleed seats, we didn't feel like hurrying to just wait around. I was quite enthralled by the local constabulary, much to my boyfriend's amusement. What can I say? I do like a man in uniform. Though not paramedics, sorry Tom, it's just the nasty green polyester doesn't do it for me. After squeezing into a local hostelry I finally got my drink. It was worth the wait.
Then we trooped off to the gig. The crowd was ever so good natured. We had a laugh with the door staff and with the people who sat around us. The seats really were nosebleed, but thanks to the big screen, we did actually see Sting and the lads. The set was great. All the favourite old hits and some that I didn't know as well. Sting's voice was on form again and he looked and sounded fantastic. I realise I really am getting old. When Don't Stand So Close to Me came out, I was just getting into music, I was younger than Rowan is now. One thing is for certain, Sting is aging better than I. He looks amazing; and all by the power of yoga, if he is to be believed. Maybe I ought to get out a yoga dvd? It was a brilliant night, I had loads of fun bopping and singing along. There's just something about a live gig, that beats a cd or the dvd footage. I suppose it's the atmosphere, the crowd singing and dancing along, the musicians' banter between themselves and the crowd.
The next day we left Cardiff and headed back to Norwich, but on a magical mystery tour. It was my first time in Wales and the countryside was shown to it's best in the bright winter sunshine. My Viking wouldn't tell me where we were going, we just drove. After driving for over an hour and a half, he asked me if I'd figured out where we were going yet. I just shook my head; I didn't have a clue. Next minute I know we pull into Hay-on-Wye. To my shame, I was completely ignorant of this town's existence, but the few hours we spent trolling through the craft and book shops, I know I definitely want to go back. But next time, I want to have lots more money to spend. The books! The fabulous books. I was so good up until the last book shop. I managed to put back the thrillers, the horrors and romance, I did get an amazing mug, but I was really, really good. If I bought the stuff that I saw and wanted, I'd be eating beans and doing over-time for the rest of the year. But then, the last book shop we went into, I got caught. I just wanted a reader in media studies, that's all. I came out with about 10 books ranging from academic to Dennis Weatley. *sigh*. I didn't dare go into the poetry bookshop.
I had such a good time away, it was just what I needed, to look at different countryside and different sights. And as I sit here typing, with an empty glass and half of my sundried tomatoe-stuffed olives, I realise that home isn't too bad either. Even if it is just me and the cat this half-term.
The Viking took me to Cardiff to see The Police. Yes, you read right. I went to The Police gig, with a policeman. See, I am keeping my sense of humour. We dashed out of Norwich after my day at college, though that soon turned to 'crawled', as we made our way round the M25 in rush hour traffic. We ended up staying in a small hotel in Cardiff Gates on the edge of a business estate.There were two disadvantages to chosing this hotel, though by the time my Viking booked the hotel, there wasn't much of a choice as 45,000 other people wanted to be there too. First, Cardiff wasn't easily accessibly. When the Viking rang up he was assured that there was a bus that ran not far from the hotel, I immediately thought - goodie. It turns out that the bus stop was a half-an hour walk away. We decided to take a taxi into town instead, far quicker. The Second, and most heinious of all: the hotel was drier than the Salt Lake Desert. There was no bar, no pub, no drinkies to be had at all! Bloody shocking I tell you. Yes, I did make my displeasure know. It's not that I'm a lush (she says typing as she sips a glass of something naughty), it was the principle of the thing. We were away for an off-white weekend (as opposed to dirty, because we had to come back on the Saturday), we should have been able to indulge in a little tipple, or three; damn it. I won't complain too much as the hotel room was clean and spacious, the breakfast not too bad at all, the staff smiled, and meant it.
Cardiff is a sneaky city. I didn't fall in love with it, the way I fell for Dublin, it kind of crept up on me, charming me with endearments and knowing smiles. The Viking wanted to do the Millenium thing by Cardiff Bay, where Torchwood is filmed, I wanted to do Cardiff Castle. So we started with the Millenium thing. It was a glorious day, really bright, but with just enough of a bite in the air to let you know it's Winter. I loved the towering water-feature opposite the massive Millenium Centre and took several arty shots of the Viking and I cuddled up in front. Cardiff Bay seems to be home to every chain except Wagamamas, which seemed a bit sad really, especially since I really fancied some chain noodles. The Bay was like glass and unfortunately we missed the chance to grab a water taxi to the Millenium Stadium, by 10 minutes. We popped into the Dr Who exhibition and got Hottie her very own sonic screwdriver and then made our way to the Castle by train.
The Castle was great. We took a tour round the Victorian House which really was designed and paid for by two men who had more money than taste. Hand on heart you couldn't even call them Chavs, because the family were really OLD money. But goodness. There were rooms painted in genuine gold leaf, with marble, carved wood, crystals, quite a few astrological symbols and a painted devil. I loved it; though I'm glad I didn't have to live in it, as I'm sure it would be a complete bugger to heat in the winter and I do like to keep warm. The guide was brilliant, knew his stuff and had a great sense of humour. By the way, if you'd like to rent the banquetting hall for a function, it'll only set you back £500 an hour, and be assured food and service is extra. After the tour we went into the Keep, Viking leaping and bounding, me following very tentatively. I don't like heights and rickety wooden stairs.
By the time we were chucked out of there I was ready for a drink and we talked about heading over to the Millenium Stadium to the gig. Doors opened at 16.30, but as we had named, nosebleed seats, we didn't feel like hurrying to just wait around. I was quite enthralled by the local constabulary, much to my boyfriend's amusement. What can I say? I do like a man in uniform. Though not paramedics, sorry Tom, it's just the nasty green polyester doesn't do it for me. After squeezing into a local hostelry I finally got my drink. It was worth the wait.
Then we trooped off to the gig. The crowd was ever so good natured. We had a laugh with the door staff and with the people who sat around us. The seats really were nosebleed, but thanks to the big screen, we did actually see Sting and the lads. The set was great. All the favourite old hits and some that I didn't know as well. Sting's voice was on form again and he looked and sounded fantastic. I realise I really am getting old. When Don't Stand So Close to Me came out, I was just getting into music, I was younger than Rowan is now. One thing is for certain, Sting is aging better than I. He looks amazing; and all by the power of yoga, if he is to be believed. Maybe I ought to get out a yoga dvd? It was a brilliant night, I had loads of fun bopping and singing along. There's just something about a live gig, that beats a cd or the dvd footage. I suppose it's the atmosphere, the crowd singing and dancing along, the musicians' banter between themselves and the crowd.
The next day we left Cardiff and headed back to Norwich, but on a magical mystery tour. It was my first time in Wales and the countryside was shown to it's best in the bright winter sunshine. My Viking wouldn't tell me where we were going, we just drove. After driving for over an hour and a half, he asked me if I'd figured out where we were going yet. I just shook my head; I didn't have a clue. Next minute I know we pull into Hay-on-Wye. To my shame, I was completely ignorant of this town's existence, but the few hours we spent trolling through the craft and book shops, I know I definitely want to go back. But next time, I want to have lots more money to spend. The books! The fabulous books. I was so good up until the last book shop. I managed to put back the thrillers, the horrors and romance, I did get an amazing mug, but I was really, really good. If I bought the stuff that I saw and wanted, I'd be eating beans and doing over-time for the rest of the year. But then, the last book shop we went into, I got caught. I just wanted a reader in media studies, that's all. I came out with about 10 books ranging from academic to Dennis Weatley. *sigh*. I didn't dare go into the poetry bookshop.
I had such a good time away, it was just what I needed, to look at different countryside and different sights. And as I sit here typing, with an empty glass and half of my sundried tomatoe-stuffed olives, I realise that home isn't too bad either. Even if it is just me and the cat this half-term.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Burma Petition
It's Monday, with it's usual stuff.
For some people however, life is a bit more tightrope than juggling work, household maintenance and keeping primary relationships together. For some, there is the knock on the door in the middle of the night. For some there is no opportunity to moan about government targets in the relative safety of the internet.
Twining is once again our conscience. Many thanks for his raising awareness on the issue. Please sign this petition to support the monks and peoples of Burma.
For some people however, life is a bit more tightrope than juggling work, household maintenance and keeping primary relationships together. For some, there is the knock on the door in the middle of the night. For some there is no opportunity to moan about government targets in the relative safety of the internet.
Twining is once again our conscience. Many thanks for his raising awareness on the issue. Please sign this petition to support the monks and peoples of Burma.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Sunday, Sunday
This was one of the last weekends Boy and I have together before the madness of Christmas takes over and I wanted to make the most of it. We had company yesterday Bear and his lovely missus came over. We caught up over coffee, ciabattas stuffed with cheese, ham and salad and put the world to rights, lubricated by some fabulous elderberry wine from Scotland. It was lovely just being able to relax with good company and good food.
Today, Boy and I went for a walk. We started off with a hearty English breakfast at my favourite greasy spoon and then we headed off to UEA on foot, through the Avenues, and round about a council estate called South Park (I kid you not) until we finally fell over the university. It was a nostalgic meander, one which called up both good and sad memories. At UEA, Boy bought me a coke and we sat out and watched the world go by before we trouped around the body of water known as the Broad. We caught the bus back.
I'm still having difficulty with the thought that in 4 years time Boy will basically leave home. If he pursues his dream of becoming a vet, it means he'll be studying for 9 months of the year, with 3 months as work placement. Yes, I know he will come visit and vice versa. But he'll be setting out into the world as a man. I suppose it's a scary thought, simply because he'll be off, and I have no idea what I'll be doing with myself. Will I be writing? Will I be employed? Will I be a famous artist? Will I be on my own? With someone else? Will I still even be in Norwich, or England?
The scary thing is I don't even know how to go about answering those questions now. I'm just putting one foot in front of the other at the moment, moving steadily towards the day when I'll be a single-parent without my child. It's a pre-cursor to the Empty-Nest Syndrome I suppose. I'm not comfortable with the uncertainty, but as scary as it is, it's also exciting. Boy is going to be a Man. When he leaves home, it'll be the first time that I will experience life without the responsibility of another human being. Though apparently, I get to keep the cat. Joy. While we were walking and chatting, he said he didn't particularly want to drag her all over the country with him. So she has officially become mine. Just as well really.
Today, Boy and I went for a walk. We started off with a hearty English breakfast at my favourite greasy spoon and then we headed off to UEA on foot, through the Avenues, and round about a council estate called South Park (I kid you not) until we finally fell over the university. It was a nostalgic meander, one which called up both good and sad memories. At UEA, Boy bought me a coke and we sat out and watched the world go by before we trouped around the body of water known as the Broad. We caught the bus back.
I'm still having difficulty with the thought that in 4 years time Boy will basically leave home. If he pursues his dream of becoming a vet, it means he'll be studying for 9 months of the year, with 3 months as work placement. Yes, I know he will come visit and vice versa. But he'll be setting out into the world as a man. I suppose it's a scary thought, simply because he'll be off, and I have no idea what I'll be doing with myself. Will I be writing? Will I be employed? Will I be a famous artist? Will I be on my own? With someone else? Will I still even be in Norwich, or England?
The scary thing is I don't even know how to go about answering those questions now. I'm just putting one foot in front of the other at the moment, moving steadily towards the day when I'll be a single-parent without my child. It's a pre-cursor to the Empty-Nest Syndrome I suppose. I'm not comfortable with the uncertainty, but as scary as it is, it's also exciting. Boy is going to be a Man. When he leaves home, it'll be the first time that I will experience life without the responsibility of another human being. Though apparently, I get to keep the cat. Joy. While we were walking and chatting, he said he didn't particularly want to drag her all over the country with him. So she has officially become mine. Just as well really.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Figue Amere
Today was an improvement on yesterday, so it's safe for you to continue reading this. I had a long pamper session last night and an early night and it certainly was a good cure for my miseries. Work continues to be dogged by staff shortages caused by sickness, as the bug I got last week, continues its rounds. I was once again in the SkinSpa area, next to lovely smelly things. Before you nag, yes, I was good and did manage not to buy anything today.
Besides, I didn't need to do any retail therapy, I had my fabulous bottle of Geranium Bourbon waiting for me. I had to have another pamper session when I got home tonight, just so I could put it on. But I was a bit daring today. I tried Miller Harris' Figue Amere. If I remember correctly, Lyn Harris was walking down an exotic beach and she passed someone eating figs, so she recreated the moment in Figue Amere. It isn't a sweet fig fragrance like Hermes Un Jardin en Mediterranee, it's more salty with a dark chocoloate drydown, which just made me feel edible all day.
I found an amazing French blogger, who is a perfume historian, the link is to the left under Nose that Knows, and he discusses formulae, ingredients and the development of the hard core of the perfume world. He talks with passion and enthusiasm about these old perfumes, which is great to read, I've learnt quite a lot visiting his blog. But one of the things that struck me about the perfume world of the hard core of Chanel, Dior, Estee Lauder, Lanvin, Guerlin etc, is that the fragrances are designed to order. So one perfumer wanted to design fragrances to match a woman's moods. Mme Chanel, didn't really create No 5, she had perfumers and apparently there is some controversy as to how she got the formula. NB. Don't quote me on the history, I'm still learning and my details may be dodgy.
Whereas the female perfumers, within small perfume houses create fragrances from moments or for loved ones. Annick Goutal, whose fragrances are also exclusive to our department store, created Grand Amour, after her second husband bought home a huge bouquet to celebrate an anniversary. How amazing is that? Lyn Harris' fragrances all come with a story: a walk in a spring-time wood, a walk on a beach. They just seem more personal somehow.
Of course there are male perfumers who create fragrances from moments as well. Creed launched their Virgin Island Water after a sailing trip round the Virgin Islands and that really does smell like a tropical holiday. Creed are a small family business who have been creating fragrances for Kings, Princes of the Realm, movie stars for hundreds of years. They are rather special.
Perhaps that's the difference. Rather than the celebrity of the moment wanting to convince their army of teeny-bopper fans to part with more cash, or a large fashion house thinking 'hmmm...what will we do for Spring 2009?'. These perfumers create from their moments of pleasure, their passions. It shows. Yummy.
Besides, I didn't need to do any retail therapy, I had my fabulous bottle of Geranium Bourbon waiting for me. I had to have another pamper session when I got home tonight, just so I could put it on. But I was a bit daring today. I tried Miller Harris' Figue Amere. If I remember correctly, Lyn Harris was walking down an exotic beach and she passed someone eating figs, so she recreated the moment in Figue Amere. It isn't a sweet fig fragrance like Hermes Un Jardin en Mediterranee, it's more salty with a dark chocoloate drydown, which just made me feel edible all day.
I found an amazing French blogger, who is a perfume historian, the link is to the left under Nose that Knows, and he discusses formulae, ingredients and the development of the hard core of the perfume world. He talks with passion and enthusiasm about these old perfumes, which is great to read, I've learnt quite a lot visiting his blog. But one of the things that struck me about the perfume world of the hard core of Chanel, Dior, Estee Lauder, Lanvin, Guerlin etc, is that the fragrances are designed to order. So one perfumer wanted to design fragrances to match a woman's moods. Mme Chanel, didn't really create No 5, she had perfumers and apparently there is some controversy as to how she got the formula. NB. Don't quote me on the history, I'm still learning and my details may be dodgy.
Whereas the female perfumers, within small perfume houses create fragrances from moments or for loved ones. Annick Goutal, whose fragrances are also exclusive to our department store, created Grand Amour, after her second husband bought home a huge bouquet to celebrate an anniversary. How amazing is that? Lyn Harris' fragrances all come with a story: a walk in a spring-time wood, a walk on a beach. They just seem more personal somehow.
Of course there are male perfumers who create fragrances from moments as well. Creed launched their Virgin Island Water after a sailing trip round the Virgin Islands and that really does smell like a tropical holiday. Creed are a small family business who have been creating fragrances for Kings, Princes of the Realm, movie stars for hundreds of years. They are rather special.
Perhaps that's the difference. Rather than the celebrity of the moment wanting to convince their army of teeny-bopper fans to part with more cash, or a large fashion house thinking 'hmmm...what will we do for Spring 2009?'. These perfumers create from their moments of pleasure, their passions. It shows. Yummy.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Meltdown
The next time someone says 'it can't get any worse', just kick them and say it's from me.
Today, I had a meltdown at work. I got into work on time, I was looking forward to being back and getting stuck in...and then I had to sort out my diary until Christmas. I've agreed to take on extra days for the festive period and both me and my colleague who was trying to sort it out got more and more stressed. The only way I can take on the extra days is if I work 5 days a week. Not a problem, especially when I finish college in the second week in December. But it's a huge problem in November and October, especially since I've got a day every week at college. Somehow I've got to get it together to do my 5 days, my day at college and do homework and paperwork for both, keep my household running and maintain relationships with my Boy and my Viking. Which, at the moment, it looks like I can book time off to spend with them in 2008...no I'm not kidding.
On my break I called Gee and howled down the phone at her. Bless her, despite her own committments she's agreed to keep an eye on us and make sure we're occasionally fed. I then rang my Viking to see what his plans are for Christmas (he's working, of course) and howled down the phone to him. I then sniffed, mopped and went back to the shop floor whereby my colleague, let's call her Janie, looked at me, asked 'are you alright?' and I promptly lost it.
How professional am I? I got led to my manager's office and bearing in mind that this is the 2nd day I've met her (we've had a re-structure last week) and cried for half an hour on her shoulder. Oh boy. We've agreed that I will only take on what I can and they won't stress at me. All in all, I've had a rubbish day. The fact of the matter is I have to do the extra days. I need the money. I suppose there are times that I feel my single-parent, orphan status very keenly. Today, was one of those days; and I'm allowed. I don't have a husband/partner to carry the burden, my family is in Trinidad and this is the first Christmas I have without both my Mum and Pops.
But I am also really lucky, there is a plus side. I have friends who are there for me, who are prepared to do practical things for me, like babysit, wash my dishes, hand me a glasses of red wine. I have a my Viking who talked me down from teary to smiles this evening, he understands about retail, Christmas and madness and we've promised each other we'll do something lovely after the madness is all over.
There are two rainbows soaring over my rainy day (literally and figuratively). The first is thanks to the fabulous Samantha at Miller Harris who said I could have a bottle of Geranium Bourbon for my own self. It arrives tomorrow. I can't wait to get my grubby mitts on it. It is my favourite fragrance. I just love selling it. While it does not hold mass appeal, those who love it, really love it; I think that's fine.
The second is my retail therapy. I've been working in the SkinSpa area today. Korres are a young Greek award-winning company that do amazing bath, body and face products. They create products that are kind to your skin and kind to the environment. With the shuffle around at work, we've been able to carry more of their range, which of course has meant more temptation for me. Today I bought their Fig Shower Gel to go with the Fig Body Butter, which I've already got sitting on my dressing table.
After the wet walk back from work, Boy and I met in the Pub Over the Wall had a couple of pints of coke and a good a chin wag. We came home, I hit the shower, pampered and slathered myself to a glass of naughtiness and chatted to my Viking. I now feel human again, if slightly stupid at my meltdown. But this is how it is at the moment. Perhaps it may not be me at my best, but I will get there. And however shitty I feel today, tomorrow is another day pregnant with possibilities.
Today, I had a meltdown at work. I got into work on time, I was looking forward to being back and getting stuck in...and then I had to sort out my diary until Christmas. I've agreed to take on extra days for the festive period and both me and my colleague who was trying to sort it out got more and more stressed. The only way I can take on the extra days is if I work 5 days a week. Not a problem, especially when I finish college in the second week in December. But it's a huge problem in November and October, especially since I've got a day every week at college. Somehow I've got to get it together to do my 5 days, my day at college and do homework and paperwork for both, keep my household running and maintain relationships with my Boy and my Viking. Which, at the moment, it looks like I can book time off to spend with them in 2008...no I'm not kidding.
On my break I called Gee and howled down the phone at her. Bless her, despite her own committments she's agreed to keep an eye on us and make sure we're occasionally fed. I then rang my Viking to see what his plans are for Christmas (he's working, of course) and howled down the phone to him. I then sniffed, mopped and went back to the shop floor whereby my colleague, let's call her Janie, looked at me, asked 'are you alright?' and I promptly lost it.
How professional am I? I got led to my manager's office and bearing in mind that this is the 2nd day I've met her (we've had a re-structure last week) and cried for half an hour on her shoulder. Oh boy. We've agreed that I will only take on what I can and they won't stress at me. All in all, I've had a rubbish day. The fact of the matter is I have to do the extra days. I need the money. I suppose there are times that I feel my single-parent, orphan status very keenly. Today, was one of those days; and I'm allowed. I don't have a husband/partner to carry the burden, my family is in Trinidad and this is the first Christmas I have without both my Mum and Pops.
But I am also really lucky, there is a plus side. I have friends who are there for me, who are prepared to do practical things for me, like babysit, wash my dishes, hand me a glasses of red wine. I have a my Viking who talked me down from teary to smiles this evening, he understands about retail, Christmas and madness and we've promised each other we'll do something lovely after the madness is all over.
There are two rainbows soaring over my rainy day (literally and figuratively). The first is thanks to the fabulous Samantha at Miller Harris who said I could have a bottle of Geranium Bourbon for my own self. It arrives tomorrow. I can't wait to get my grubby mitts on it. It is my favourite fragrance. I just love selling it. While it does not hold mass appeal, those who love it, really love it; I think that's fine.
The second is my retail therapy. I've been working in the SkinSpa area today. Korres are a young Greek award-winning company that do amazing bath, body and face products. They create products that are kind to your skin and kind to the environment. With the shuffle around at work, we've been able to carry more of their range, which of course has meant more temptation for me. Today I bought their Fig Shower Gel to go with the Fig Body Butter, which I've already got sitting on my dressing table.
After the wet walk back from work, Boy and I met in the Pub Over the Wall had a couple of pints of coke and a good a chin wag. We came home, I hit the shower, pampered and slathered myself to a glass of naughtiness and chatted to my Viking. I now feel human again, if slightly stupid at my meltdown. But this is how it is at the moment. Perhaps it may not be me at my best, but I will get there. And however shitty I feel today, tomorrow is another day pregnant with possibilities.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Butt-in-Gear-Time
Last week was a bit of a low point for me. The day I started proper and regular employment I came down with Boy's cold, whose generosity knows no bounds. It was a real stinker and of the three days I was supposed to do last week, I did one. I tried to go into college. I did manage to enrol and did the tour, given that there have been so many changes within NSAD, I'm glad I stuck it out for that part of the day, but couldn't manage any more than that. Unfortunately, I met up with my other students. Put it like this, we've got the Head of Media Studies of a local college, a Graphic Design graduate, an Art History Graduate...and me. I came home feeling rubbish, coughing like a smoker and nearly gave in to major Self-Pity Gnome. As it is I gave him a cuppa and a bickie (don't tell Viking, he'll be cross if there are no biscuits when he next comes over). Rationally, I know that I would not have been accepted onto the course if the tutors thought I didn't have a clue or had no talent. But it still scared the shit out of me.
Viking is oop North and Boy went off to Wells-Next-Sea for his dad-time. I basically did nothing Friday and Saturday. I ate when hungry, read, played Oblivion quite a bit. On Sunday, I got up and without intending to sorted out two rubbish bags full of paperwork which had been accumulating for the last 18 months time. Not only that, I ended up doing some laundry, tidying up my bedroom, my desk and upgrading the software on my phone which I've been meaning to do for the last 6 months.
Today, I had a lovely couple of hours with Gee. Kept her company while she painted and I looked at Home and Gardens. We bounced some ideas about doing the flat up and dreamed of World Domination while consuming vats of coffee and tea. Eventually, we headed out and I bought some meat and veg for dinner. This afternoon I've managed to make some Thai Green Curry chicken, as well as attempting a Caribbean stewed chicken. This will be some of the first real meals I've cooked for ages, which is shocking considering how much I like good food. I think I'm lucky I don't have some social worker banging on my door trying to Super Nanny me.
So, Boy and I will eat well this week. I've got a weekend off, which is great, our first weekend together since...Trinidad. Hopefully, the weather will be good enough for us to go out and about with our cameras. I think it's about time we took some fresh air.
I suppose I just didn't realise how run down and knackered I was to let things get so out of hand. But there is no point berating myself further, Boy doesn't have scurvy or rickets, and he has been going to school in clean clothes, so I've not been completely negligent.
And besides, when you're rock bottom, the only way is up.
Viking is oop North and Boy went off to Wells-Next-Sea for his dad-time. I basically did nothing Friday and Saturday. I ate when hungry, read, played Oblivion quite a bit. On Sunday, I got up and without intending to sorted out two rubbish bags full of paperwork which had been accumulating for the last 18 months time. Not only that, I ended up doing some laundry, tidying up my bedroom, my desk and upgrading the software on my phone which I've been meaning to do for the last 6 months.
Today, I had a lovely couple of hours with Gee. Kept her company while she painted and I looked at Home and Gardens. We bounced some ideas about doing the flat up and dreamed of World Domination while consuming vats of coffee and tea. Eventually, we headed out and I bought some meat and veg for dinner. This afternoon I've managed to make some Thai Green Curry chicken, as well as attempting a Caribbean stewed chicken. This will be some of the first real meals I've cooked for ages, which is shocking considering how much I like good food. I think I'm lucky I don't have some social worker banging on my door trying to Super Nanny me.
So, Boy and I will eat well this week. I've got a weekend off, which is great, our first weekend together since...Trinidad. Hopefully, the weather will be good enough for us to go out and about with our cameras. I think it's about time we took some fresh air.
I suppose I just didn't realise how run down and knackered I was to let things get so out of hand. But there is no point berating myself further, Boy doesn't have scurvy or rickets, and he has been going to school in clean clothes, so I've not been completely negligent.
And besides, when you're rock bottom, the only way is up.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
PostSecret
I think I may have posted this before, can't remember having a bit of a brain fade. But it touched me, and I thought I would share: cause that's what blogging is about. Isn't it?
Friday, October 05, 2007
*crack* the sound of my jaw dropping
Those of you in The Know, will be aware that my Viking is a copper. Occasionally he has expressed some frustration at his workload and I have dished out cuddles and biscuits as appropriate. When he says how frustrating he finds working in a target culture, I've teased him about being PC Bastard because if he doesn't have x-number of Fixed Penalty Notices, someone from up high has a quiet word in his shell-like.
Today Inspector Gadget posted about the paperwork that follows a relatively straightforward crime. I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the stupidity of it. I knew it was ridiculous from the frustration voiced not only by my Viking, but others of my favourite police bloggers (listed to your left). But seeing the list of forms required and knowing that if they are not filled out exactly they'll only come back with some sarky comment from a paper-pusher stunned me.
No one in their right mind would chose to do this. The money is shite, the clients vile, the public apathetic. But these men and women do it. Day after day.
I know it's not much, but to you incredible people I raise my glass to you. Thank you.
Thank you for doing what you do, day after day, despite the government's best efforts. I may be one voice in the wilderness; but you guys rock!
Today Inspector Gadget posted about the paperwork that follows a relatively straightforward crime. I don't know whether to laugh or cry at the stupidity of it. I knew it was ridiculous from the frustration voiced not only by my Viking, but others of my favourite police bloggers (listed to your left). But seeing the list of forms required and knowing that if they are not filled out exactly they'll only come back with some sarky comment from a paper-pusher stunned me.
No one in their right mind would chose to do this. The money is shite, the clients vile, the public apathetic. But these men and women do it. Day after day.
I know it's not much, but to you incredible people I raise my glass to you. Thank you.
Thank you for doing what you do, day after day, despite the government's best efforts. I may be one voice in the wilderness; but you guys rock!
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Dear Richard Branson,
Since you decided to expand your huge business empire and make NTL part of your stable, my television service has sucked. Big Time.
As nice as those Pay Per View movie ads are, over the summer if I paid to see a movie, or wanted to watch Catch Up TV, during it's play the screen would go black for a second or two, constantly throughout the whole movie, film or programme. When I did ring up, the lovely person from Mumbai, suggested the fault would be fixed eventually. Perhaps my box was overheating?
A couple of weeks ago we discovered that as long as my computer was off, the Pay Per View etc, would work fine. Great stuff, as long as I know. Last week the box died. With a bit of jiggery pokery I managed to get it to work. This week, it's died for good.
When I rang yesterday morning, the 0845 number which charges you 6p per minute and it takes 3 minutes and 5 buttons button presses to actually speak to someone. And by the way, I don't really like some bint in her regional accent chirpily saying 'let's get you to some help', when it leads to more recordings and advice that I've already taken.
I am served by Rollo. Oh please. I am not a stupid person. I come from the West Indies, I know what a non-British accent sounds like. I occasionally read the papers, on-line business news etc. I am perfectly aware that the call centre is based in India. Don't patronise me or the poor bastard at the end of my stroppy call, by giving them a fake British name. If it makes financial sense to have the call centre there, fine. Own it, don't apologise for it and for heaven's sake, don't assume that a British name will make me believe he's sitting in Manchester.
It takes a few minutes of questions to decide I am who I say I am, where I am and the service I've got. It's not Rollo's fault he can't understand me through my snot (I have a cold), my accent and my ire. He want's to send a technician out. Great. He'll be there 4-7 tomorrow. Really? I work. Boy is going to be home, but I'm informed that should the technician turn up and Boy is less than 18 years old, the technician will charge me £10 for wasting his time and won't fix the damn box.
Well Richard, I lost my temper. Your call-centre staff probably earn more than I do. And the thing about being in a minimum wage job is that you can't really take time off for getting your telly fixed. And of course I wasn't offered a slot over the weekend, was I? Your technicians don't have to work over the weekends. Lucky them. This is the first weekend I'm going to have off in over 3 weeks and I want to be able to watch my tv.
You'd be proud of Rollo, he was very patient as I cursed you Richard, because it sure as hell isn't his fault; he's just doing what you've told his Area Manager to do. If you ever got as far South as that to give the order. The fact of the matter is, I don't like your service anymore. Unfortunately, it's the cheapest service available, which pretty much means I'm stuck with it. But bear this with mind, when I become less poverty-stricken, I will be voting with my feet.
I know it's a bit silly of me, but I just want a company that provides a service around it's customers needs, doesn't patronise them, is upfront and professional and Richard, that's just not Virgin Media at the moment.
Yours (very pissed-offedly)
Roses
As nice as those Pay Per View movie ads are, over the summer if I paid to see a movie, or wanted to watch Catch Up TV, during it's play the screen would go black for a second or two, constantly throughout the whole movie, film or programme. When I did ring up, the lovely person from Mumbai, suggested the fault would be fixed eventually. Perhaps my box was overheating?
A couple of weeks ago we discovered that as long as my computer was off, the Pay Per View etc, would work fine. Great stuff, as long as I know. Last week the box died. With a bit of jiggery pokery I managed to get it to work. This week, it's died for good.
When I rang yesterday morning, the 0845 number which charges you 6p per minute and it takes 3 minutes and 5 buttons button presses to actually speak to someone. And by the way, I don't really like some bint in her regional accent chirpily saying 'let's get you to some help', when it leads to more recordings and advice that I've already taken.
I am served by Rollo. Oh please. I am not a stupid person. I come from the West Indies, I know what a non-British accent sounds like. I occasionally read the papers, on-line business news etc. I am perfectly aware that the call centre is based in India. Don't patronise me or the poor bastard at the end of my stroppy call, by giving them a fake British name. If it makes financial sense to have the call centre there, fine. Own it, don't apologise for it and for heaven's sake, don't assume that a British name will make me believe he's sitting in Manchester.
It takes a few minutes of questions to decide I am who I say I am, where I am and the service I've got. It's not Rollo's fault he can't understand me through my snot (I have a cold), my accent and my ire. He want's to send a technician out. Great. He'll be there 4-7 tomorrow. Really? I work. Boy is going to be home, but I'm informed that should the technician turn up and Boy is less than 18 years old, the technician will charge me £10 for wasting his time and won't fix the damn box.
Well Richard, I lost my temper. Your call-centre staff probably earn more than I do. And the thing about being in a minimum wage job is that you can't really take time off for getting your telly fixed. And of course I wasn't offered a slot over the weekend, was I? Your technicians don't have to work over the weekends. Lucky them. This is the first weekend I'm going to have off in over 3 weeks and I want to be able to watch my tv.
You'd be proud of Rollo, he was very patient as I cursed you Richard, because it sure as hell isn't his fault; he's just doing what you've told his Area Manager to do. If you ever got as far South as that to give the order. The fact of the matter is, I don't like your service anymore. Unfortunately, it's the cheapest service available, which pretty much means I'm stuck with it. But bear this with mind, when I become less poverty-stricken, I will be voting with my feet.
I know it's a bit silly of me, but I just want a company that provides a service around it's customers needs, doesn't patronise them, is upfront and professional and Richard, that's just not Virgin Media at the moment.
Yours (very pissed-offedly)
Roses
Sunday, September 30, 2007
I Want a Refund for the Weekend
I have been home for a bit, and I'm still cross. This has been the weekend of refunds. Not straight-forward, easy refunds. But difficult ones with stroppy customers. But I kept my smile on and my teeth gritted. You'd be so proud.
It was 9.30am on Saturday morning. I was on Perfumery as a mobile. I hadn't had my second coffee of the day yet. A very sick girl came through and asked for some help doing a refund. To be helpful, I go off to the new and very spanky Skinspa area, formerly known as Ladies Toiletries. Well, they say no good deed goes unpunished, and this was no different. By the time I had finished with the customer, it was 10.15, I missed my break and I'd been up and down 3 flights of stairs 3 times. There is a happy ending, we did the refund and the customer was happy(er) than she was when she came into the shop. The problem arose in that she paid with cash and vouchers and wanted to be refunded in cash, she lived 53 miles away, there was no manager on floor to talk me through and authorise the procedure, the cash office were being difficult and security became involved. As I said that was fine in the end.
Today, I could have cheerfully slapped the customer. It's actually one of those situations whereby the more I think about it, the more annoyed I get. She bought a set of bed linen and picked the wrong type of pillowcase. She wanted to do a straight swap. Not a problem. But she didn't bring her receipt. When I realised she didn't have her receipt, I explained that I'd just need to call someone to authorise the exchange, which I did. She went off on one. She spent a hell of a lot of money in the store and couldn't believe the fuss to do the exchange. I did say to her, very calmly and politely that the exchange could be done, but I just needed the authorisation. The guy from furniture came over and showed me how to do it on the system and then signed the necessary bits of paper. She left muttering at me under her breath. Cow.
Mind you, it's probably Karma. Tuesday evening I get a phone call from Stella Smith, calling on behalf of Orange. Now Stella Smith, with a broad, New Dehli accent then proceeded to tell about my contract with O2 and how much more competitive Orange were; she called me on my landline. I'm ex-directory and I don't have the time or patience to sign up for the telephone preference thingy, telemarketers call me at their own peril. It might be just their job, but quite frankly I'm ex-directory for a reason and I don't see why I should have to take yet another step to guard my privacy. Anyway, to cut my rant short I say goodbye and hang up. I go into the O2 shop and relay this conversation to the taken-aback staff.
The fact of the matter is, my contract is with O2. The details of which I expect to be kept between O2 and myself. I realise now how naive I've been. My credit and commercial transactions are not private, they are a commodity to be traded between companies and government organisations. If I want these to remain private, I'd have to live in a field somewhere with no bank account and no telecommunication. Which of course isn't possible. I like my plastic and the comfort of my planet eating ways, not to mention flushing toilets. I especially like flushing toilets. At the end of my rant, I was told my the glazed shop girl to take it up with Customer Services. Great. I wonder how much action I'd get at the end of that £1.50 a min conversation?
It was 9.30am on Saturday morning. I was on Perfumery as a mobile. I hadn't had my second coffee of the day yet. A very sick girl came through and asked for some help doing a refund. To be helpful, I go off to the new and very spanky Skinspa area, formerly known as Ladies Toiletries. Well, they say no good deed goes unpunished, and this was no different. By the time I had finished with the customer, it was 10.15, I missed my break and I'd been up and down 3 flights of stairs 3 times. There is a happy ending, we did the refund and the customer was happy(er) than she was when she came into the shop. The problem arose in that she paid with cash and vouchers and wanted to be refunded in cash, she lived 53 miles away, there was no manager on floor to talk me through and authorise the procedure, the cash office were being difficult and security became involved. As I said that was fine in the end.
Today, I could have cheerfully slapped the customer. It's actually one of those situations whereby the more I think about it, the more annoyed I get. She bought a set of bed linen and picked the wrong type of pillowcase. She wanted to do a straight swap. Not a problem. But she didn't bring her receipt. When I realised she didn't have her receipt, I explained that I'd just need to call someone to authorise the exchange, which I did. She went off on one. She spent a hell of a lot of money in the store and couldn't believe the fuss to do the exchange. I did say to her, very calmly and politely that the exchange could be done, but I just needed the authorisation. The guy from furniture came over and showed me how to do it on the system and then signed the necessary bits of paper. She left muttering at me under her breath. Cow.
Mind you, it's probably Karma. Tuesday evening I get a phone call from Stella Smith, calling on behalf of Orange. Now Stella Smith, with a broad, New Dehli accent then proceeded to tell about my contract with O2 and how much more competitive Orange were; she called me on my landline. I'm ex-directory and I don't have the time or patience to sign up for the telephone preference thingy, telemarketers call me at their own peril. It might be just their job, but quite frankly I'm ex-directory for a reason and I don't see why I should have to take yet another step to guard my privacy. Anyway, to cut my rant short I say goodbye and hang up. I go into the O2 shop and relay this conversation to the taken-aback staff.
The fact of the matter is, my contract is with O2. The details of which I expect to be kept between O2 and myself. I realise now how naive I've been. My credit and commercial transactions are not private, they are a commodity to be traded between companies and government organisations. If I want these to remain private, I'd have to live in a field somewhere with no bank account and no telecommunication. Which of course isn't possible. I like my plastic and the comfort of my planet eating ways, not to mention flushing toilets. I especially like flushing toilets. At the end of my rant, I was told my the glazed shop girl to take it up with Customer Services. Great. I wonder how much action I'd get at the end of that £1.50 a min conversation?
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