strangereality64
05.31.04 (11:08 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
I rarely post two entries in one day, but I've been tinkering with this page (see new links, left - then click on the Badger link for an hypnotic chuckle) and while I'm here I might as well post something.
Hm. A funny story would seem to be in order. Yes. I'm in a good mood as I'm not due at work until 12:00 tomorrow. So tonight I can stay up late and have a lie-in. This is very good. Let me see... The funny story relates to a time more than 3 years ago now when I worked at a call centre for a satellite TV company. This company - let's call it [i]KAK[/i] - was not very good either to work for or to patronise as a customer. The satellite TV decoders that they installed usually broke down within a day or two, and then you faced the hassle of trying to call their customer services helpline. Which is where I came in: one morning early that summer, I started work as a call-handling agent for [i]KAK[/i]'s customer services.
For 8 hours per day I had arguments with people on the telephone. Several weeks passed.
Among my then colleagues were two young women whose first names were Stacey. Stacey 1 and Stacey 2 we called them. One day a very unhappy customer came on the line and spoke to Stacey 1. At the end of the call he demanded to know her name. "It's Stacey," she said and he hung up.
The next day that customer came back on the line. This time he spoke with Stacey 2, and again he ranted and raved for the statutory 20 minutes (what [i]is[/i] it with angry callers to call centres and the period of 20 minutes? it seems to be universal). At the end, all spent, he asked for Stacey 2's name, and she told him. A momentary pause. (I know all this because I painstakingly gathered all the details afterwards, knowing in advance that I was fated to type it all up in a 'blog' in the early hours of June 1st 2004.) The angry customer said with suspicion: "The girl I spoke to yesterday... her name was Stacey as well." That's right, he was told, we're both called Stacey. Problem? Like Tom Jones, he agreed that it wasn't unusual. Perhaps he [i]was[/i] Tom Jones - you never know. (While I worked there I took a cancellation order from the slightly-well-known British evolutionary biologist, Richard Dawkins. Author of [i]The Selfish Gene [/i]and the [i]The Blind Watchmaker[/i]. Yes, [i]him[/i]! He had a plummy voice just like all the Oxford dons you've ever seen in movies. Cancelled his satellite TV subscription with yours truly on the other end of the line. What a guy. Richard Dawkins, not me. Digression over.)
The very next day, the angry customer who had spoken to two young women called Stacey on successive days, was back on the line. This time he spoke to one of my male colleagues. The engineer [i]still[/i] hadn't shown up, and he [i]still[/i] didn't have the service that he was paying [i]forty fucking pounds [/i]a month for. Et cetera et cetera.
At the end of this call the customer asked my male colleague for his name.
My colleague said: "My name's Stacey."
And it was. His name really was Stacey. You know, like Stacey Keach, the actor. It's one of those names, is Stacey.
The customer went [i]berserk[/i]. "What the [i]fuck[/i]? Is everyone there fucking called Stacey? Uh? What the [i]fuck[/i]'s going on here, you're all having a [i]laugh[/i] at me, all telling me your names are [i]Stacey[/i], aaaarrrrrrrgggghhhhhhh........"
Well I think it's funny.
I rarely post two entries in one day, but I've been tinkering with this page (see new links, left - then click on the Badger link for an hypnotic chuckle) and while I'm here I might as well post something.
Hm. A funny story would seem to be in order. Yes. I'm in a good mood as I'm not due at work until 12:00 tomorrow. So tonight I can stay up late and have a lie-in. This is very good. Let me see... The funny story relates to a time more than 3 years ago now when I worked at a call centre for a satellite TV company. This company - let's call it [i]KAK[/i] - was not very good either to work for or to patronise as a customer. The satellite TV decoders that they installed usually broke down within a day or two, and then you faced the hassle of trying to call their customer services helpline. Which is where I came in: one morning early that summer, I started work as a call-handling agent for [i]KAK[/i]'s customer services.
For 8 hours per day I had arguments with people on the telephone. Several weeks passed.
Among my then colleagues were two young women whose first names were Stacey. Stacey 1 and Stacey 2 we called them. One day a very unhappy customer came on the line and spoke to Stacey 1. At the end of the call he demanded to know her name. "It's Stacey," she said and he hung up.
The next day that customer came back on the line. This time he spoke with Stacey 2, and again he ranted and raved for the statutory 20 minutes (what [i]is[/i] it with angry callers to call centres and the period of 20 minutes? it seems to be universal). At the end, all spent, he asked for Stacey 2's name, and she told him. A momentary pause. (I know all this because I painstakingly gathered all the details afterwards, knowing in advance that I was fated to type it all up in a 'blog' in the early hours of June 1st 2004.) The angry customer said with suspicion: "The girl I spoke to yesterday... her name was Stacey as well." That's right, he was told, we're both called Stacey. Problem? Like Tom Jones, he agreed that it wasn't unusual. Perhaps he [i]was[/i] Tom Jones - you never know. (While I worked there I took a cancellation order from the slightly-well-known British evolutionary biologist, Richard Dawkins. Author of [i]The Selfish Gene [/i]and the [i]The Blind Watchmaker[/i]. Yes, [i]him[/i]! He had a plummy voice just like all the Oxford dons you've ever seen in movies. Cancelled his satellite TV subscription with yours truly on the other end of the line. What a guy. Richard Dawkins, not me. Digression over.)
The very next day, the angry customer who had spoken to two young women called Stacey on successive days, was back on the line. This time he spoke to one of my male colleagues. The engineer [i]still[/i] hadn't shown up, and he [i]still[/i] didn't have the service that he was paying [i]forty fucking pounds [/i]a month for. Et cetera et cetera.
At the end of this call the customer asked my male colleague for his name.
My colleague said: "My name's Stacey."
And it was. His name really was Stacey. You know, like Stacey Keach, the actor. It's one of those names, is Stacey.
The customer went [i]berserk[/i]. "What the [i]fuck[/i]? Is everyone there fucking called Stacey? Uh? What the [i]fuck[/i]'s going on here, you're all having a [i]laugh[/i] at me, all telling me your names are [i]Stacey[/i], aaaarrrrrrrgggghhhhhhh........"
Well I think it's funny.
strangereality63
05.31.04 (12:23 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Bank Holiday Monday, 13:00 hours. I'm suffering with the year's first attack of hay fever. Nose permanently blocked, eyes streaming, a rough tickle at the back of my throat. Antihistamines? Pah. They make me feel worse: but only because I made the mistake of reading the accompanying leaflet a few years ago. The list of all the possible side-effects entered through my optic nerve and travelled directly to the core of my alleged 'mind'. And took up residence in that part of my 'mind' where the 'hypochondria' office is always open for business and thinking of moving premises because it can't cope with the punishing workload. So I can't take antihistamines. I'm scouring the Internet looking for quack hay fever remedies. The best (i.e. most amusing) one I've come across so far is this: Smear a little Vaseline beneath your nostrils, twice a day. Right. I can see myself doing that. Walking around with an apparent snot-sheen on my top lip. Last year I was fine - went through the entire summer with just the odd sneeze, now and again. And I thought: I'm cured! Perhaps last summer was particularly wet or something, and this year's (so far) is dry. Wet conditions do inhibit the production and spread of grass pollen. In which case I ought to be praying for rain. Look: I am praying for rain. Here I am sitting cross-legged on the floor with my palms pressed together. My expression is solemn - almost pious. It's taking me back to the last time I attended Mass, oh, must be 18 years ago now, when I was at school and the nuns used to spend the whole time just watching you for a hint of inattention or impiety. Then they'd signal a teacher and you'd be told to go and wait outside the headmaster's office. In those days the cane was still in use, and regular miscreants were given 6 of the best, on both hands. But that was then: this, it follows, is now. [i]Please[/i], I implore God, or god, or the powers of the Earth, or Vishnu, or Krishna, or Buddha (this is incorrect as Buddha was adamant that praying to anyone or thing, least of all him, was wrong and stupid and laughable, but I include Buddha anyway because, well, it can't hurt can it, and I'm suffering here...), [i]please make the sky drop water across the land and bring peace to my raging nostrils, my weeping eyes, my scurvy throat, avast ye![/i]. I get up from the floor and walk to the window, where I tweak the curtain aside and look up into the sky. I expect huge frothing Biblical thunderclouds and the kind of rain that makes the news. But the sky is clear: the sparse clouds are [i]fluffy[/i] and [i]peaceful[/i]. In my unprofessional opinion it will not rain today. I sniff, then I blink: my nostrils are clearing - my eyes, drying.
Bank Holiday Monday, 13:00 hours. I'm suffering with the year's first attack of hay fever. Nose permanently blocked, eyes streaming, a rough tickle at the back of my throat. Antihistamines? Pah. They make me feel worse: but only because I made the mistake of reading the accompanying leaflet a few years ago. The list of all the possible side-effects entered through my optic nerve and travelled directly to the core of my alleged 'mind'. And took up residence in that part of my 'mind' where the 'hypochondria' office is always open for business and thinking of moving premises because it can't cope with the punishing workload. So I can't take antihistamines. I'm scouring the Internet looking for quack hay fever remedies. The best (i.e. most amusing) one I've come across so far is this: Smear a little Vaseline beneath your nostrils, twice a day. Right. I can see myself doing that. Walking around with an apparent snot-sheen on my top lip. Last year I was fine - went through the entire summer with just the odd sneeze, now and again. And I thought: I'm cured! Perhaps last summer was particularly wet or something, and this year's (so far) is dry. Wet conditions do inhibit the production and spread of grass pollen. In which case I ought to be praying for rain. Look: I am praying for rain. Here I am sitting cross-legged on the floor with my palms pressed together. My expression is solemn - almost pious. It's taking me back to the last time I attended Mass, oh, must be 18 years ago now, when I was at school and the nuns used to spend the whole time just watching you for a hint of inattention or impiety. Then they'd signal a teacher and you'd be told to go and wait outside the headmaster's office. In those days the cane was still in use, and regular miscreants were given 6 of the best, on both hands. But that was then: this, it follows, is now. [i]Please[/i], I implore God, or god, or the powers of the Earth, or Vishnu, or Krishna, or Buddha (this is incorrect as Buddha was adamant that praying to anyone or thing, least of all him, was wrong and stupid and laughable, but I include Buddha anyway because, well, it can't hurt can it, and I'm suffering here...), [i]please make the sky drop water across the land and bring peace to my raging nostrils, my weeping eyes, my scurvy throat, avast ye![/i]. I get up from the floor and walk to the window, where I tweak the curtain aside and look up into the sky. I expect huge frothing Biblical thunderclouds and the kind of rain that makes the news. But the sky is clear: the sparse clouds are [i]fluffy[/i] and [i]peaceful[/i]. In my unprofessional opinion it will not rain today. I sniff, then I blink: my nostrils are clearing - my eyes, drying.
strangereality62
05.29.04 (2:06 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Got into a stupid argument at work about philosophy. It started innocuously enough. In a quiet moment I remarked that I was pissed off with Amazon UK. "I ordered a book a month ago," I said. "The site information said I'd get it within a few days. When I checked back a few days later, the delivery date estimate was changed to August. Bloody [i]August[/i]!" People didn't respond immediately: they're used to my unprovoked, contextless rants.
After a few minutes Steve asked: "What was the book?"
"A rare book," I admitted, "about philosophy." Steve raised his eyebrow and I added: "A rare book about causation in philosophy." Steve's eyebrow raised even further so I went on: "It's one of the oldest questions in philosophy. The common sense picture of cause-and-effect isn't necessarily the case. Look," and I pushed a pen across my desk with my finger. "What caused that pen to move?" I asked Steve.
"Your finger," said Steve.
"And what caused my finger to move?"
"You did."
"And what caused me to cause my finger to move?"
"Your mind."
"And what caused my mind to cause my finger to move?"
He shrugged. "Oh, I get it," he said.
"Yeh," I said, getting excited as I warmed to my theme. "Objectively, you can never truly say that [i]X[/i] is moved (or caused) by [i]Y[/i]. Because all you are doing is transferring the cause from one phenomenon to another. The ultimate cause has never been properly identified. Some believe there is no ultimate cause and the question is a category error in language. Some believe that a supreme being is the ultimate cause. Others believe in stranger possibilities..."
This isn't made-up. I really do talk like that, sometimes. No wonder I'm single.
Anyway by now the attention of several nearby people had been snagged. Weak May sunshine splashed across the office and I squinted into the air as I tried to defend myself against the argument of [i]common sense[/i]. Apparently, my finger [i]had[/i] moved the pen, and really there was nothing else to be said, it was [i]obvious[/i] that effects are caused by their immediate effecters, and philosophy is for losers, and [i]common sense[/i] rules...
This was all very good-humoured, I have to add: I'm seen as a likeable eccentric rather than as a creepy weirdo. I think. I hope. (What fun we had, on the day when I revealed to several workmates that the notion that we inhabit an illusory reality is as old as the human race, and was not invented by [i]The Matrix[/i]... Ahh, memories.)
So we batted arguments back and forth for a while, and I failed miserably to undermine my workmates' unshakeable faith in the reliability of their common sense-derived interpretations of the world. It ended with me half-seriously losing my temper and them all laughing and breaking away to return to their desks.
I was right all along though. But that book still won't be here until August.
Got into a stupid argument at work about philosophy. It started innocuously enough. In a quiet moment I remarked that I was pissed off with Amazon UK. "I ordered a book a month ago," I said. "The site information said I'd get it within a few days. When I checked back a few days later, the delivery date estimate was changed to August. Bloody [i]August[/i]!" People didn't respond immediately: they're used to my unprovoked, contextless rants.
After a few minutes Steve asked: "What was the book?"
"A rare book," I admitted, "about philosophy." Steve raised his eyebrow and I added: "A rare book about causation in philosophy." Steve's eyebrow raised even further so I went on: "It's one of the oldest questions in philosophy. The common sense picture of cause-and-effect isn't necessarily the case. Look," and I pushed a pen across my desk with my finger. "What caused that pen to move?" I asked Steve.
"Your finger," said Steve.
"And what caused my finger to move?"
"You did."
"And what caused me to cause my finger to move?"
"Your mind."
"And what caused my mind to cause my finger to move?"
He shrugged. "Oh, I get it," he said.
"Yeh," I said, getting excited as I warmed to my theme. "Objectively, you can never truly say that [i]X[/i] is moved (or caused) by [i]Y[/i]. Because all you are doing is transferring the cause from one phenomenon to another. The ultimate cause has never been properly identified. Some believe there is no ultimate cause and the question is a category error in language. Some believe that a supreme being is the ultimate cause. Others believe in stranger possibilities..."
This isn't made-up. I really do talk like that, sometimes. No wonder I'm single.
Anyway by now the attention of several nearby people had been snagged. Weak May sunshine splashed across the office and I squinted into the air as I tried to defend myself against the argument of [i]common sense[/i]. Apparently, my finger [i]had[/i] moved the pen, and really there was nothing else to be said, it was [i]obvious[/i] that effects are caused by their immediate effecters, and philosophy is for losers, and [i]common sense[/i] rules...
This was all very good-humoured, I have to add: I'm seen as a likeable eccentric rather than as a creepy weirdo. I think. I hope. (What fun we had, on the day when I revealed to several workmates that the notion that we inhabit an illusory reality is as old as the human race, and was not invented by [i]The Matrix[/i]... Ahh, memories.)
So we batted arguments back and forth for a while, and I failed miserably to undermine my workmates' unshakeable faith in the reliability of their common sense-derived interpretations of the world. It ended with me half-seriously losing my temper and them all laughing and breaking away to return to their desks.
I was right all along though. But that book still won't be here until August.
strangereality61
05.28.04 (4:39 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Hmm, tBlog seems much faster today. The page loaded within half a second. Navigation between features is smooth. Perhaps the site supremos (or should that be supremoes?) have spent the day oiling the machine? Whatever they've done, and it must have been [i]something[/i], they must keep it going. This site could be good, or even great (if you've got Ad-Aware, and a top-rated firewall, and an armour-plated anti-virus, of course). Here's to a new era, hopefully.
Today was my first early shift at work for 3 weeks. Last night I couldn't get to sleep and lay in bed watching some cheesy 1970s movie set in the Pacific during World War II. The plot was straightforward: a group of Aliied POWs, British and Australian, on a Japanese transport ship were trying to escape. Meanwhile a US submarine was stalking the convoy in which they were travelling. The Japanese captain of the transport ship refused to fly the flag that signified POWs were on board - why he would refuse to do this, when his ship and his own neck would be relatively safer, was never adequately explained. But there you go: that's fiction for you. Also on board was your stereotypical fierce Japanese soldier - played by Star Trek's Mr Sulu, one George Takei. The dramatic fulcrum of the movie was the three-way conflict between him, the humane-minded Japanese captain, and the British officer played by James Fox (he of [i]Day of the Jackal [/i]fame). Events moved to a head: as the POWs prepared their bid to seize control of the ship, the US submarine closed in behind. Gosh, the [i]tension[/i].... I fell asleep: it must have been at about 3 a.m. The alarm went off at 6 a.m. I switched it off and went back to sleep. A few minutes later my second alarm went off. It's on a shelf on the other side of the bedroom. I got up and switched it off, and then I switched off my mobile phone alarm before it went off. I staggered around the house looking for my trousers through barely-opened eyes. I have to work tomorrow, Saturday, as well. At least Monday is a Bank Holiday - yes, yet another day off work. I need it. I'm burnt out.
I caught the bus at 6:35 a.m. from the stop at the end of the street. 3 weeks since I last caught this bus. All the usual faces were there to stare at me and wonder where I'd been for 3 weeks. I sat in my usual seat at the back and took out a book and read a few pages. I yawned hugely. When I got to work I went to the restaurant for breakfast: beans, hash browns, sausages, bacon, two big glasses of orange juice, and tea with two sugars in it. Steve and Helen joined me and we chatted aimlessly, desultorily, about nothing.
Hmm, tBlog seems much faster today. The page loaded within half a second. Navigation between features is smooth. Perhaps the site supremos (or should that be supremoes?) have spent the day oiling the machine? Whatever they've done, and it must have been [i]something[/i], they must keep it going. This site could be good, or even great (if you've got Ad-Aware, and a top-rated firewall, and an armour-plated anti-virus, of course). Here's to a new era, hopefully.
Today was my first early shift at work for 3 weeks. Last night I couldn't get to sleep and lay in bed watching some cheesy 1970s movie set in the Pacific during World War II. The plot was straightforward: a group of Aliied POWs, British and Australian, on a Japanese transport ship were trying to escape. Meanwhile a US submarine was stalking the convoy in which they were travelling. The Japanese captain of the transport ship refused to fly the flag that signified POWs were on board - why he would refuse to do this, when his ship and his own neck would be relatively safer, was never adequately explained. But there you go: that's fiction for you. Also on board was your stereotypical fierce Japanese soldier - played by Star Trek's Mr Sulu, one George Takei. The dramatic fulcrum of the movie was the three-way conflict between him, the humane-minded Japanese captain, and the British officer played by James Fox (he of [i]Day of the Jackal [/i]fame). Events moved to a head: as the POWs prepared their bid to seize control of the ship, the US submarine closed in behind. Gosh, the [i]tension[/i].... I fell asleep: it must have been at about 3 a.m. The alarm went off at 6 a.m. I switched it off and went back to sleep. A few minutes later my second alarm went off. It's on a shelf on the other side of the bedroom. I got up and switched it off, and then I switched off my mobile phone alarm before it went off. I staggered around the house looking for my trousers through barely-opened eyes. I have to work tomorrow, Saturday, as well. At least Monday is a Bank Holiday - yes, yet another day off work. I need it. I'm burnt out.
I caught the bus at 6:35 a.m. from the stop at the end of the street. 3 weeks since I last caught this bus. All the usual faces were there to stare at me and wonder where I'd been for 3 weeks. I sat in my usual seat at the back and took out a book and read a few pages. I yawned hugely. When I got to work I went to the restaurant for breakfast: beans, hash browns, sausages, bacon, two big glasses of orange juice, and tea with two sugars in it. Steve and Helen joined me and we chatted aimlessly, desultorily, about nothing.
strangereality60
05.26.04 (10:37 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
This afternoon the outside doors burst open and into the building where I work marched a small army of pale, t-shirted geeks from the company's IT division. They were holding a sleek black VDU flatscreen apiece. The company had finally decided to rip out the old-style bulky monitors that we've been working with for years. Around and behind the geeks (sorry to call them that but they [i]were[/i]) was an honour guard of blue-uniformed, hatchet-faced security guards. The two huge trucks that had brought the screens - 2000 screens for every workstation on-site - would be worth several hundred thousand pounds, if stolen by a criminal gang. Allegedly. Hence the security. (And just like when I see police officers in the street, I imagined that they were all staring at me and privately suspecting that I was either capable of stealing some or all of the screens, or that I was in fact actively plotting to do so. I avoided their eyes.)
I was sitting in a different part of the office than usual, in order to 'facilitate' the installation of the screens. (Ye gods, how I loathe business speak.) Carl and Rachel were my temporary desk-neighbours. Rachel I get on fine: she started just 3 months after me, when I still worked in the call centre, and she sat with me for an afternoon to listen to the kinds of calls that come in. I remember her bright red hair which she has since allowed to go back to its natural mousy brown. While she sat with me that day, 2 years ago now, I actually totally messed up one of the calls I took, but Rachel couldn't tell, and so I pretended - breezily, and yes, almost [i]nonchalantly[/i] - that everything had gone OK, and I stored the computer log of the (disastrous) call in a holding queue, and then when she had gone back to the training suite upstairs I recovered the log and repaired all the damage. I revealed all of this about a few weeks later when we had become friends and with a dirty laugh she said: "I'm not stupid, you know. I could tell you'd fucked it up. I was just being polite..." And I said: "Ah."
Carl, my other temporary deskmate today, is not a good friend (mainly on account of his being a bit of a psychopath, especially after a few drinks, but that's another story). We get on well enough, though, me and Carl. All things considered. (Yep, definitely another story.)
In relative silence Carl, Rachel, and me watched the IT geeks moving around the office, ripping boxy monitors from their anchorages and replacing them with the laptop-style flatscreens. The geeks were flushed and sweating (noticeably more so under the gaze of the many miniskirted blondes thronging the call centre desks). They were slowly making their way towards our position.
Rachel and I had a brief conversation about some music festival she's going to this weekend - an event staged under a circus tent in a field somewhere in Lincolnshire: a kind of [i]pseudo-rave[/i], in other words. But without the drugs, supposedly. After a minute our conversation tapered off because I had no real interest in whether the 'rave' was going to be 'wicked' or not, and Rachel is a close enough friend to know that I had no real interest, and also a close enough friend not to mind.
Carl jumped into the breach and asked me if I was going to watch the European Cup Final tonight. The two surprise finalists were Monaco and Porto - not two of Europe's greatest football teams, and also decidedly not English: therefore most people I'd heard speaking about it were saying they were not going to watch the match. I said to Carl that I was going to watch it, that I never miss it because, although my interest in football has dwindled in recent years, the European Cup Final is still an unmissable event. Carl and I rambled on for a good 20 minutes about football. I believe that I won his respect for my firm opinion that the world's best footballers are Italian. He expressed general agreement but proposed a counter-argument in favour of South American players - and all the while the terrible IT army of geeks was swarming nearer. In the end they reached and engulfed us, and in a blur of body odour and incomprehensible lingo, they went away and left us with our new screens. Rachel, Carl, and me stared at them impassively. They were big and bright: it was like watching television. We started typing our various [i]things[/i] that were to do with our [i]work[/i] and above the companionable clatter of computer keys I heard Carl say: "D'you wanna go to the pub after work to watch the game?" I froze. He would certainly strangle me for saying No, but I would have to say No. I turned my head. Carl was looking at Rachel, Rachel at Carl. "Yeah! That'd be cool," said Rachel like a character in a movie, or a book.
I was relieved, but obscurely disappointed. I won't speculate why.
This evening I watched the European Cup Final. Porto beat Monaco 3-0: the second Porto goal was the best, with their left winger sending the Monaco goalkeeper the wrong way before calmly placing the ball between two defenders into the net. But overall it wasn't a good game and I regretted the time that I had wasted in watching it.
This afternoon the outside doors burst open and into the building where I work marched a small army of pale, t-shirted geeks from the company's IT division. They were holding a sleek black VDU flatscreen apiece. The company had finally decided to rip out the old-style bulky monitors that we've been working with for years. Around and behind the geeks (sorry to call them that but they [i]were[/i]) was an honour guard of blue-uniformed, hatchet-faced security guards. The two huge trucks that had brought the screens - 2000 screens for every workstation on-site - would be worth several hundred thousand pounds, if stolen by a criminal gang. Allegedly. Hence the security. (And just like when I see police officers in the street, I imagined that they were all staring at me and privately suspecting that I was either capable of stealing some or all of the screens, or that I was in fact actively plotting to do so. I avoided their eyes.)
I was sitting in a different part of the office than usual, in order to 'facilitate' the installation of the screens. (Ye gods, how I loathe business speak.) Carl and Rachel were my temporary desk-neighbours. Rachel I get on fine: she started just 3 months after me, when I still worked in the call centre, and she sat with me for an afternoon to listen to the kinds of calls that come in. I remember her bright red hair which she has since allowed to go back to its natural mousy brown. While she sat with me that day, 2 years ago now, I actually totally messed up one of the calls I took, but Rachel couldn't tell, and so I pretended - breezily, and yes, almost [i]nonchalantly[/i] - that everything had gone OK, and I stored the computer log of the (disastrous) call in a holding queue, and then when she had gone back to the training suite upstairs I recovered the log and repaired all the damage. I revealed all of this about a few weeks later when we had become friends and with a dirty laugh she said: "I'm not stupid, you know. I could tell you'd fucked it up. I was just being polite..." And I said: "Ah."
Carl, my other temporary deskmate today, is not a good friend (mainly on account of his being a bit of a psychopath, especially after a few drinks, but that's another story). We get on well enough, though, me and Carl. All things considered. (Yep, definitely another story.)
In relative silence Carl, Rachel, and me watched the IT geeks moving around the office, ripping boxy monitors from their anchorages and replacing them with the laptop-style flatscreens. The geeks were flushed and sweating (noticeably more so under the gaze of the many miniskirted blondes thronging the call centre desks). They were slowly making their way towards our position.
Rachel and I had a brief conversation about some music festival she's going to this weekend - an event staged under a circus tent in a field somewhere in Lincolnshire: a kind of [i]pseudo-rave[/i], in other words. But without the drugs, supposedly. After a minute our conversation tapered off because I had no real interest in whether the 'rave' was going to be 'wicked' or not, and Rachel is a close enough friend to know that I had no real interest, and also a close enough friend not to mind.
Carl jumped into the breach and asked me if I was going to watch the European Cup Final tonight. The two surprise finalists were Monaco and Porto - not two of Europe's greatest football teams, and also decidedly not English: therefore most people I'd heard speaking about it were saying they were not going to watch the match. I said to Carl that I was going to watch it, that I never miss it because, although my interest in football has dwindled in recent years, the European Cup Final is still an unmissable event. Carl and I rambled on for a good 20 minutes about football. I believe that I won his respect for my firm opinion that the world's best footballers are Italian. He expressed general agreement but proposed a counter-argument in favour of South American players - and all the while the terrible IT army of geeks was swarming nearer. In the end they reached and engulfed us, and in a blur of body odour and incomprehensible lingo, they went away and left us with our new screens. Rachel, Carl, and me stared at them impassively. They were big and bright: it was like watching television. We started typing our various [i]things[/i] that were to do with our [i]work[/i] and above the companionable clatter of computer keys I heard Carl say: "D'you wanna go to the pub after work to watch the game?" I froze. He would certainly strangle me for saying No, but I would have to say No. I turned my head. Carl was looking at Rachel, Rachel at Carl. "Yeah! That'd be cool," said Rachel like a character in a movie, or a book.
I was relieved, but obscurely disappointed. I won't speculate why.
This evening I watched the European Cup Final. Porto beat Monaco 3-0: the second Porto goal was the best, with their left winger sending the Monaco goalkeeper the wrong way before calmly placing the ball between two defenders into the net. But overall it wasn't a good game and I regretted the time that I had wasted in watching it.
strangereality59
05.25.04 (8:19 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
It was a relief to go back to work today after all the unpleasantnesses of the past week or so. A few months ago I had a week off and then when I went back to work I complained about everything there seeming just the same as before I left - whereas I had somehow expected everything to be different. This time it was different: the moment I walked through the office doors I felt the altered vibe. In my absence the management had launched a crackdown on discipline. Now, if you call in sick an e-mail gets sent to the whole office telling everybody that you have called in sick. I don't know what this is meant to achieve. In addition there is more enhanced monitoring of how many breaks are taken and how much work is actually done every day. And the managers themselves seem to have morphed into walking portraits: the kind whose eyes follow you around the room wherever you hapen to be, whatever they're otherwise doing. All very strange. I found myself obsessively counting up, like a miser, how many days holiday I have left to take. We get 25 days paid holiday per year (reckoned from October to September) and I have so far had 18 of them. So I've got a good week-and-a-bit left to me.
My newly-shaved head was a minor sensation, though. People asked me: "Why did you do it?" I answered: "Because my hair is thinning," which is nothing but the truth. Alas, my hair thinning has coincided with a pan-cultural paradigm shift towards males shaving their heads for [i]fashion[/i] purposes. So I had to endure much scepticism and teasing. About half of my colleagues were firmly of the opinion that I had shaved my head in order to identify more closely with the one and only [b]David Beckham[/b]. This left me speechless. Those people do not know me at all.
After a while it all got a bit too irritating and in a quiet moment I shouted across the office: "Okay, here's the truth. I was going to tell you all this soon, but you might as well know now. The truth is that I have got leukaemia." Total silence while they tried to assess whether I was being serious or not. No, they do not know me at all. Presently I had to actually [i]say[/i]: "Hah! Not really..." You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Several people admonished me for making a sick joke. "Sorry," I said insincerely and got up and went to the bathroom. I washed my hands and stared at my reflection for a minute. Then the door behind me opened and I turned abruptly and left.
When I got home this evening I found a fat envelope waiting for me on the doormat. It contained sample chapters of the novel that I finished recently, and my latest rejection letter from a literary agent. This rejection letter, like all the half-dozen or so that I have accumulated, is on the surface quite positive, saying in effect: 'Your book is [i]really[/i] promising but we just can't take on any new projects at the moment...' Yeah, right. Just like all the other rejection letters, the ink-smudges in the margins of the letter, and its grainy typeface, give the game away: they are all much-photocopied [i]form letters[/i]. I doubt if they even read what I sent them. 'Don't be disheartened,' said the letter towards the end. I wasn't. I walked upstairs and carefully placed the letter in a folder with all the others. I am still waiting for two other agents to get back to me. Chances are they'll send me form-rejections too. If so, well: there are about 100 literary agents in the UK to choose from. About 1000 publishers. I'll just keep trying. I reread the whole text of my novel a couple of days ago for the first time since finishing it, and it seems good to me. It's the kind of novel that I would read and enjoy. So I'll just keep going.
It was a relief to go back to work today after all the unpleasantnesses of the past week or so. A few months ago I had a week off and then when I went back to work I complained about everything there seeming just the same as before I left - whereas I had somehow expected everything to be different. This time it was different: the moment I walked through the office doors I felt the altered vibe. In my absence the management had launched a crackdown on discipline. Now, if you call in sick an e-mail gets sent to the whole office telling everybody that you have called in sick. I don't know what this is meant to achieve. In addition there is more enhanced monitoring of how many breaks are taken and how much work is actually done every day. And the managers themselves seem to have morphed into walking portraits: the kind whose eyes follow you around the room wherever you hapen to be, whatever they're otherwise doing. All very strange. I found myself obsessively counting up, like a miser, how many days holiday I have left to take. We get 25 days paid holiday per year (reckoned from October to September) and I have so far had 18 of them. So I've got a good week-and-a-bit left to me.
My newly-shaved head was a minor sensation, though. People asked me: "Why did you do it?" I answered: "Because my hair is thinning," which is nothing but the truth. Alas, my hair thinning has coincided with a pan-cultural paradigm shift towards males shaving their heads for [i]fashion[/i] purposes. So I had to endure much scepticism and teasing. About half of my colleagues were firmly of the opinion that I had shaved my head in order to identify more closely with the one and only [b]David Beckham[/b]. This left me speechless. Those people do not know me at all.
After a while it all got a bit too irritating and in a quiet moment I shouted across the office: "Okay, here's the truth. I was going to tell you all this soon, but you might as well know now. The truth is that I have got leukaemia." Total silence while they tried to assess whether I was being serious or not. No, they do not know me at all. Presently I had to actually [i]say[/i]: "Hah! Not really..." You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Several people admonished me for making a sick joke. "Sorry," I said insincerely and got up and went to the bathroom. I washed my hands and stared at my reflection for a minute. Then the door behind me opened and I turned abruptly and left.
When I got home this evening I found a fat envelope waiting for me on the doormat. It contained sample chapters of the novel that I finished recently, and my latest rejection letter from a literary agent. This rejection letter, like all the half-dozen or so that I have accumulated, is on the surface quite positive, saying in effect: 'Your book is [i]really[/i] promising but we just can't take on any new projects at the moment...' Yeah, right. Just like all the other rejection letters, the ink-smudges in the margins of the letter, and its grainy typeface, give the game away: they are all much-photocopied [i]form letters[/i]. I doubt if they even read what I sent them. 'Don't be disheartened,' said the letter towards the end. I wasn't. I walked upstairs and carefully placed the letter in a folder with all the others. I am still waiting for two other agents to get back to me. Chances are they'll send me form-rejections too. If so, well: there are about 100 literary agents in the UK to choose from. About 1000 publishers. I'll just keep trying. I reread the whole text of my novel a couple of days ago for the first time since finishing it, and it seems good to me. It's the kind of novel that I would read and enjoy. So I'll just keep going.
strangereality58
05.24.04 (2:39 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
I finally saw the video clip of Nick Berg being murdered. I stumbled across a link to it by accident while browsing 9/11 links related to Michael Moore's forthcoming movie. Whether the Nick Berg video is real or not (and like many, I suspect it is not), I found that I couldn't watch it all the way through. And I'm somebody who saw [i]The Texas Chainsaw Massacre[/i] (among other 'video nasties') when I was 10 years old. I have a strong stomach for screen violence: billion-dollar bloodbaths and the like hold no fears for me. But the knowledge that what I was watching was [i]real[/i] (allegedly) had a very strong impact upon me. When it got to the point that Berg's neck was being sawn into and he was squealing piteously, I had to X the damn clip off my screen. I literally couldn't watch any more. I anticipated the moment when the 'head' would be severed from the 'body' and held up to the camera, and I just didn't want to see it. For about half an hour I was quite shaken - and as I have said, this reaction of mine was just not like me. Why is it that I (we?) can with perfect equanimity and detachment view all kinds of fictional depictions of violence, and yet in this case I (we?) felt literally sickened to my stomach? What does this say about the imagination? I don't know.
A couple of points struck me afterwards. Berg is shown to be awake and conscious at the start of the video. Then his murderers seize him and lay him out flat on the ground, and one of them sets to work with a knife. This is where I begin to doubt the reality of the video. If you were being set upon by men with knives, and if one of them started carving you up, wouldn't you struggle against them with all your strength? Even if you knew it was impossible to escape and were resigned to your fate, your natural physical response to a blade slicing into your flesh would be a total muscular spasm of your entire body. Your body would resist even if you had given up all hope. And yet in the video Berg is almost completely motionless. The sound of him whimpering is the only indication that the scene is 'real'.
Perhaps his captors drugged him in advance to pacify his response? If they were experienced decapitators, then they would have known that that was the thing to do. I don't know. If this video is real then it's the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. Most people have seen the WWII film of a Japanese officer shooting a prisoner in the head: that's bad enough. This is much, much worse.
On the other hand, if it's not real then I just don't know what is going on anywhere.
I finally saw the video clip of Nick Berg being murdered. I stumbled across a link to it by accident while browsing 9/11 links related to Michael Moore's forthcoming movie. Whether the Nick Berg video is real or not (and like many, I suspect it is not), I found that I couldn't watch it all the way through. And I'm somebody who saw [i]The Texas Chainsaw Massacre[/i] (among other 'video nasties') when I was 10 years old. I have a strong stomach for screen violence: billion-dollar bloodbaths and the like hold no fears for me. But the knowledge that what I was watching was [i]real[/i] (allegedly) had a very strong impact upon me. When it got to the point that Berg's neck was being sawn into and he was squealing piteously, I had to X the damn clip off my screen. I literally couldn't watch any more. I anticipated the moment when the 'head' would be severed from the 'body' and held up to the camera, and I just didn't want to see it. For about half an hour I was quite shaken - and as I have said, this reaction of mine was just not like me. Why is it that I (we?) can with perfect equanimity and detachment view all kinds of fictional depictions of violence, and yet in this case I (we?) felt literally sickened to my stomach? What does this say about the imagination? I don't know.
A couple of points struck me afterwards. Berg is shown to be awake and conscious at the start of the video. Then his murderers seize him and lay him out flat on the ground, and one of them sets to work with a knife. This is where I begin to doubt the reality of the video. If you were being set upon by men with knives, and if one of them started carving you up, wouldn't you struggle against them with all your strength? Even if you knew it was impossible to escape and were resigned to your fate, your natural physical response to a blade slicing into your flesh would be a total muscular spasm of your entire body. Your body would resist even if you had given up all hope. And yet in the video Berg is almost completely motionless. The sound of him whimpering is the only indication that the scene is 'real'.
Perhaps his captors drugged him in advance to pacify his response? If they were experienced decapitators, then they would have known that that was the thing to do. I don't know. If this video is real then it's the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. Most people have seen the WWII film of a Japanese officer shooting a prisoner in the head: that's bad enough. This is much, much worse.
On the other hand, if it's not real then I just don't know what is going on anywhere.
strangereality57
05.23.04 (2:26 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
I do not approve of funerals. They serve no real purpose. The pretense is that they are a formal opportunity to pay one's last respects to the deceased, but the dead are the dead: past all caring, one way or the other. Funerals are about the [i]living[/i]. This seems to me to be somewhat morbid. In the place of traditional western funerals I would like to see a quick memorial service and/ or drink in a suitable location (a church, a pub, or whatever) without the dead body being present in any way. Dead bodies should be cremated within hours of the death and the ashes either given to the next of kin or (preferably) just scattered in the sea. No fuss, no bother.
As things stand I have the funeral of my brother-in-law to attend sometime this week or early next week. The coroner isn't letting go of the body until more tests are carried out. One thing is certain: the good old tradition of a 'wake' will be scrupulously adhered to, and everyone will get silly-drunk and emotional throughout the course of a trying day.
The last funeral I attended was an uncle's about 10 years ago. I will never forget the misery of looking down at my hand at 9:30 in the morning and seeing a half-empty pint of Guinness. By 11:00 I was steaming drunk. I drank all day with various relatives and was ill for a week. These days I'm trying to cut back on the frequency of my drunk days. So I'm planning not to go to the wake this time. But I'm not strong when it comes to people. No doubt I'll be persuaded to 'just come for one drink' and the next thing I'll know I'll be sat amid a drunken male voice choir singing an impromptu rendition of Danny Boy. I must do everything I can to not let that happen.
I do not approve of funerals. They serve no real purpose. The pretense is that they are a formal opportunity to pay one's last respects to the deceased, but the dead are the dead: past all caring, one way or the other. Funerals are about the [i]living[/i]. This seems to me to be somewhat morbid. In the place of traditional western funerals I would like to see a quick memorial service and/ or drink in a suitable location (a church, a pub, or whatever) without the dead body being present in any way. Dead bodies should be cremated within hours of the death and the ashes either given to the next of kin or (preferably) just scattered in the sea. No fuss, no bother.
As things stand I have the funeral of my brother-in-law to attend sometime this week or early next week. The coroner isn't letting go of the body until more tests are carried out. One thing is certain: the good old tradition of a 'wake' will be scrupulously adhered to, and everyone will get silly-drunk and emotional throughout the course of a trying day.
The last funeral I attended was an uncle's about 10 years ago. I will never forget the misery of looking down at my hand at 9:30 in the morning and seeing a half-empty pint of Guinness. By 11:00 I was steaming drunk. I drank all day with various relatives and was ill for a week. These days I'm trying to cut back on the frequency of my drunk days. So I'm planning not to go to the wake this time. But I'm not strong when it comes to people. No doubt I'll be persuaded to 'just come for one drink' and the next thing I'll know I'll be sat amid a drunken male voice choir singing an impromptu rendition of Danny Boy. I must do everything I can to not let that happen.
strangereality56
05.20.04 (7:05 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Is this officially the most unreliable site on the Internet? Is there some kind of anti-award that the tblog supremos could be presented with? For better or worse I am far too lazy to move to another blog site, and for all its faults I have got used to this site. And it's free, of course. So I haven't been totally alienated [i]just[/i] yet. Let's hope that all the down-time this week is designed to help put right all the niggling faults that are so noticeable - like the logging-on lottery where you click on the link and can wait anything from 1 second to several minutes for the screen to be filled in. Sigh. There are other more important matters to think about, as I will relate -
I didn't go to Scotland in the end. My brother-in-law had the ill fortune to drop dead at about the time I was typing my last entry below. I was pottering about the house on Monday morning, packing the last few essentials into my bag, when the phone rang. I considered not answering it as I was already running late. However for some reason I did answer it.
My mother's friend Alison was on the line. She said: "I've just heard the news."
"What news?" I said. My stomach was already twisting into a knot. It can only be bad news, can't it, when somebody starts a telephone conversation like that.
"Have you heard from Sally today?" said Alison. Sally is my sister. She and her husband live about a half mile from me.
"No," I said.
"Oh," said Alison. There was a pause while Alison obviously worked out how to break the 'news'. It was irritating. I'm not the sort who requires bad news to be broken in a round-the-houses sort of way.
"What's the news?" I said bravely. Just get it over with, please. I was staring at my bag on the floor. Somehow I knew I wasn't going to Scotland this week.
"It's Jeff," said Alison. Jeff is my brother-in-law, Sally's husband. "He had a heart attack last night..."
"Fuck. How is he?"
"He's... [i]died[/i]," said Alison. What a strange way to put it. Not 'He's dead' but 'He's [i]died[/i]....' Odd.
So the days since have been more or less unpleasant. The story of my brother-in-law's death is unpleasant. After a good night out with friends at a hotel restaurant in town, he and my sister returned home at around 11 o'clock. Jeff took off his jacket and hung it over the back of an armchair, and then started to walk upstairs. Before reaching the top, he had his heart attack and fell tumbling back down. The paramedics who attended told my sister that he was dead before hitting the ground. His life had switched itself off like a light. There'll be an autopsy, as always in an instance of sudden death. Then, sometime next week, the funeral.
Jeff would have been 49 years old today, May 20th.
Is this officially the most unreliable site on the Internet? Is there some kind of anti-award that the tblog supremos could be presented with? For better or worse I am far too lazy to move to another blog site, and for all its faults I have got used to this site. And it's free, of course. So I haven't been totally alienated [i]just[/i] yet. Let's hope that all the down-time this week is designed to help put right all the niggling faults that are so noticeable - like the logging-on lottery where you click on the link and can wait anything from 1 second to several minutes for the screen to be filled in. Sigh. There are other more important matters to think about, as I will relate -
I didn't go to Scotland in the end. My brother-in-law had the ill fortune to drop dead at about the time I was typing my last entry below. I was pottering about the house on Monday morning, packing the last few essentials into my bag, when the phone rang. I considered not answering it as I was already running late. However for some reason I did answer it.
My mother's friend Alison was on the line. She said: "I've just heard the news."
"What news?" I said. My stomach was already twisting into a knot. It can only be bad news, can't it, when somebody starts a telephone conversation like that.
"Have you heard from Sally today?" said Alison. Sally is my sister. She and her husband live about a half mile from me.
"No," I said.
"Oh," said Alison. There was a pause while Alison obviously worked out how to break the 'news'. It was irritating. I'm not the sort who requires bad news to be broken in a round-the-houses sort of way.
"What's the news?" I said bravely. Just get it over with, please. I was staring at my bag on the floor. Somehow I knew I wasn't going to Scotland this week.
"It's Jeff," said Alison. Jeff is my brother-in-law, Sally's husband. "He had a heart attack last night..."
"Fuck. How is he?"
"He's... [i]died[/i]," said Alison. What a strange way to put it. Not 'He's dead' but 'He's [i]died[/i]....' Odd.
So the days since have been more or less unpleasant. The story of my brother-in-law's death is unpleasant. After a good night out with friends at a hotel restaurant in town, he and my sister returned home at around 11 o'clock. Jeff took off his jacket and hung it over the back of an armchair, and then started to walk upstairs. Before reaching the top, he had his heart attack and fell tumbling back down. The paramedics who attended told my sister that he was dead before hitting the ground. His life had switched itself off like a light. There'll be an autopsy, as always in an instance of sudden death. Then, sometime next week, the funeral.
Jeff would have been 49 years old today, May 20th.
strangereality55
05.16.04 (10:55 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
I am going on a short holiday. Lord Strange does not travel well, it must be admitted. But for some months an old schoolfriend, now settled in Scotland, has been pressuring me to revisit him in his new abode. Last time I went up he was living in an awful studio flat in Glasgow as he chased his dream of becoming an artist and I spent the weekend overcome by paint fumes. At least in Glasgow there's a pub every few yards. In Edinburgh they're more widely spaced with an inevitable uphill walk between them. These days he resides in a house with his new young wife and does all his painting in the garden shed. So in a moment of drunken weakness last night I submitted, and so at this time tomorrow night I will be in my favourite bar in Edinburgh, The Old Bailie (sic), necking whisky after whisky and moaning about all the English people in Edinburgh (in the past I've found that this kind of thing goes down well with my Scottish hosts).
I'm not looking forward to the 7-hour train journey tomorrow. By plane it's only 50 minutes from the nearest airport to Edinburgh airport, but I try not to fly if I can help it. I suffer vertigo while standing on a chair to change a lightbulb. So I try not to fly. If I can help it.
I dont' know if I'll be able to, erm, 'blog' whilst in bonny Scotland. My friend has an Internet connection but reports it to be 'almost always' down. I asked him what kind of connection he has and who his ISP is and the rest of it. He didn't know what I was talking about. "Who do you pay to access the internet?" I said. He said: "Virgin." [i]Virgin?[/i] I have never heard of them as an ISP and I said so. "Oh well," he said. He wasn't bothered. I don't think he blogs. I asked: "And is your connection 56k or broadband?" He said: "What's broadband?"
So it might be a few days before I speak to you all again. I am off to the frozen north of our scepter'd isle. I will purchase a safari hat on my way to the train station tomorrow. I know, I know, mixing my images of exotic travel there somewhat, aren't I? But still. This is a huge undertaking for me. As you may know, I find going to the local supermarket to be an adventure.
I'll bring you back some shortbread and a set of bagpipes.
I am going on a short holiday. Lord Strange does not travel well, it must be admitted. But for some months an old schoolfriend, now settled in Scotland, has been pressuring me to revisit him in his new abode. Last time I went up he was living in an awful studio flat in Glasgow as he chased his dream of becoming an artist and I spent the weekend overcome by paint fumes. At least in Glasgow there's a pub every few yards. In Edinburgh they're more widely spaced with an inevitable uphill walk between them. These days he resides in a house with his new young wife and does all his painting in the garden shed. So in a moment of drunken weakness last night I submitted, and so at this time tomorrow night I will be in my favourite bar in Edinburgh, The Old Bailie (sic), necking whisky after whisky and moaning about all the English people in Edinburgh (in the past I've found that this kind of thing goes down well with my Scottish hosts).
I'm not looking forward to the 7-hour train journey tomorrow. By plane it's only 50 minutes from the nearest airport to Edinburgh airport, but I try not to fly if I can help it. I suffer vertigo while standing on a chair to change a lightbulb. So I try not to fly. If I can help it.
I dont' know if I'll be able to, erm, 'blog' whilst in bonny Scotland. My friend has an Internet connection but reports it to be 'almost always' down. I asked him what kind of connection he has and who his ISP is and the rest of it. He didn't know what I was talking about. "Who do you pay to access the internet?" I said. He said: "Virgin." [i]Virgin?[/i] I have never heard of them as an ISP and I said so. "Oh well," he said. He wasn't bothered. I don't think he blogs. I asked: "And is your connection 56k or broadband?" He said: "What's broadband?"
So it might be a few days before I speak to you all again. I am off to the frozen north of our scepter'd isle. I will purchase a safari hat on my way to the train station tomorrow. I know, I know, mixing my images of exotic travel there somewhat, aren't I? But still. This is a huge undertaking for me. As you may know, I find going to the local supermarket to be an adventure.
I'll bring you back some shortbread and a set of bagpipes.
strangereality54
05.15.04 (10:18 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
A friend of mine is setting off with her boyfriend to travel around the world. She and her beau will visit Singapore. Japan, India, Australia, and the USA, in a 1-year odyssey that will see them arriving back home without a place to live or jobs to go to. I truly envy them. Not just for the wonders that they will see and experience, but for their courage, their [i]pluck[/i] - throwing in all the security of the stay-at-home existence for an uncertain future. Time was when I tried to do the same thing, with farcical results...
It was the year 1989. Margaret Thatcher was still in power. George Bush senior was waving from a hospital window. My mate Rick and I resigned our jobs and set off for continental Europe with our impressively heavy backpacks and no real idea about where we were headed.
We left on a Sunday. By mid-afternoon we were in France. I remember a hatchet-faced French tour guide unsmilingly directing us to the port exit, and our long walk down a long road to the campsite on a hill overlooking Calais. We pitched our tent - a hideously expensive, multi-entranced, domed affair that could have been used as scenery on [i]Logan's Run[/i]. With everything set up we walked into Calais town centre. We found a bar and approached the counter. With much pointing and smiling we ordered our drinks. I took out a handful of French coins, determined to pay with these and reduce the weight in my pockets. The barmaid looked at me in an unfriendly way. (We had naively gone direct to the bar, UK-style, rather than sat down at a table for a waiter to take our order.) She put the drinks on the bartop and said something that I didn't understand. "Pardon?" I said. She repeated it again. She was evidently saying how many francs I had to pay for the drinks. An eyebrow was raised. This was becoming embarrassing. I turned to Rick and said: "Give me a large banknote. I don't know what the fuck she just said."
We got back to our tent late in the evening. Rick was ill after too many large French measures. He was sick on the ground just outside the tent. The next morning we woke up and discovered we had spent nearly half our money on getting drunk in Calais on our first night. That night we went back into town and did it all again. The next day, we packed up and went home. Tails between our legs.
A friend of mine is setting off with her boyfriend to travel around the world. She and her beau will visit Singapore. Japan, India, Australia, and the USA, in a 1-year odyssey that will see them arriving back home without a place to live or jobs to go to. I truly envy them. Not just for the wonders that they will see and experience, but for their courage, their [i]pluck[/i] - throwing in all the security of the stay-at-home existence for an uncertain future. Time was when I tried to do the same thing, with farcical results...
It was the year 1989. Margaret Thatcher was still in power. George Bush senior was waving from a hospital window. My mate Rick and I resigned our jobs and set off for continental Europe with our impressively heavy backpacks and no real idea about where we were headed.
We left on a Sunday. By mid-afternoon we were in France. I remember a hatchet-faced French tour guide unsmilingly directing us to the port exit, and our long walk down a long road to the campsite on a hill overlooking Calais. We pitched our tent - a hideously expensive, multi-entranced, domed affair that could have been used as scenery on [i]Logan's Run[/i]. With everything set up we walked into Calais town centre. We found a bar and approached the counter. With much pointing and smiling we ordered our drinks. I took out a handful of French coins, determined to pay with these and reduce the weight in my pockets. The barmaid looked at me in an unfriendly way. (We had naively gone direct to the bar, UK-style, rather than sat down at a table for a waiter to take our order.) She put the drinks on the bartop and said something that I didn't understand. "Pardon?" I said. She repeated it again. She was evidently saying how many francs I had to pay for the drinks. An eyebrow was raised. This was becoming embarrassing. I turned to Rick and said: "Give me a large banknote. I don't know what the fuck she just said."
We got back to our tent late in the evening. Rick was ill after too many large French measures. He was sick on the ground just outside the tent. The next morning we woke up and discovered we had spent nearly half our money on getting drunk in Calais on our first night. That night we went back into town and did it all again. The next day, we packed up and went home. Tails between our legs.
strangereality53
05.13.04 (7:22 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
I have terrible luck with supermarket checkout queues. If there's only one checkout open and I join the queue and wait patiently, it's guaranteed that when I'm two or three from the front the staff will decide to open another checkout, and all the people behind me will pile over to that one and get served first. Or if there's more than one checkout open, and I try to guage which one is the best to join - which one will see me served the [i]quickest[/i] - then I'll still get it hopelessly wrong. All the people in the other queue, the queue that I rejected, will be served to production-line standards. Meanwhile in [i]my[/i] queue the people at the front all have obscure complications with their shopping and/or their payment. In his wonderful novel [i]Money[/i], Martin Amis' narrator John Self, arriving in America at the start of the book, has this to say about queues and queueing:
[i]I'd spent [i]two hours[/i] in Immigration, God damn it. I have this anti-talent for queues. You know the deal. Ho ho ho, I think, as I successfully shoulder and trample my way to the end of the shortest line. But the shortest line is the shortest line for an interesting reason. The people ahead of me are all Venusians, pterodactyls, men and women from an alternative timestream. They all have to be vivisected and bodybagged by the unsmiling 300-pounder in his lit glass box.[/i]
Similarly with me and supermarket queues: I have an abundance of this [i]anti-talent[/i] for them. Ahead of me there are people pulling out reams of paperwork from their pockets. Brandishing Monopoly money and demanding to see the store manager. Trying to use credit cards from the Bank Of Atlantis. That kind of thing.
Recently I've taken to shopping on the Internet. The other day I had £40:00's worth of groceries delivered straight to my door. It's convenient, but I'm not a great fan. For one thing there's the ghastly [i]chat[/i] you have to have with the delivery man. The man who delivered my groceries the other day had the cadaverous looks of Harry Dean Stanton (whatever happened to Harry Dean Stanton?). He dropped my shopping at the door and I signed his clipboard. Then started the [i]chat[/i].
"It's not too warm, is it?" he said frowning, nodding up at the lowering grey sky.
"No," I chuckled. Thinking: [i]get this over with and get back inside the house fucking quick[/i]....
"I'm on till 10 tonight," he went on. "Got 50 deliveries."
"Oh," I said. Then for some reason I told the most outrageous lie: "The weather forecast said it might [i]snow[/i] tonight," I said.
"Snow?" He was incredulous. It's the middle of May, after all.
"Snow," I said with steely emphasis and an unflinching gaze.
"Would you believe it," he said in wonder, shaking his head.
We each gave a little rueful chuckle and I went back inside and closed the door and that was it.
I have terrible luck with supermarket checkout queues. If there's only one checkout open and I join the queue and wait patiently, it's guaranteed that when I'm two or three from the front the staff will decide to open another checkout, and all the people behind me will pile over to that one and get served first. Or if there's more than one checkout open, and I try to guage which one is the best to join - which one will see me served the [i]quickest[/i] - then I'll still get it hopelessly wrong. All the people in the other queue, the queue that I rejected, will be served to production-line standards. Meanwhile in [i]my[/i] queue the people at the front all have obscure complications with their shopping and/or their payment. In his wonderful novel [i]Money[/i], Martin Amis' narrator John Self, arriving in America at the start of the book, has this to say about queues and queueing:
[i]I'd spent [i]two hours[/i] in Immigration, God damn it. I have this anti-talent for queues. You know the deal. Ho ho ho, I think, as I successfully shoulder and trample my way to the end of the shortest line. But the shortest line is the shortest line for an interesting reason. The people ahead of me are all Venusians, pterodactyls, men and women from an alternative timestream. They all have to be vivisected and bodybagged by the unsmiling 300-pounder in his lit glass box.[/i]
Similarly with me and supermarket queues: I have an abundance of this [i]anti-talent[/i] for them. Ahead of me there are people pulling out reams of paperwork from their pockets. Brandishing Monopoly money and demanding to see the store manager. Trying to use credit cards from the Bank Of Atlantis. That kind of thing.
Recently I've taken to shopping on the Internet. The other day I had £40:00's worth of groceries delivered straight to my door. It's convenient, but I'm not a great fan. For one thing there's the ghastly [i]chat[/i] you have to have with the delivery man. The man who delivered my groceries the other day had the cadaverous looks of Harry Dean Stanton (whatever happened to Harry Dean Stanton?). He dropped my shopping at the door and I signed his clipboard. Then started the [i]chat[/i].
"It's not too warm, is it?" he said frowning, nodding up at the lowering grey sky.
"No," I chuckled. Thinking: [i]get this over with and get back inside the house fucking quick[/i]....
"I'm on till 10 tonight," he went on. "Got 50 deliveries."
"Oh," I said. Then for some reason I told the most outrageous lie: "The weather forecast said it might [i]snow[/i] tonight," I said.
"Snow?" He was incredulous. It's the middle of May, after all.
"Snow," I said with steely emphasis and an unflinching gaze.
"Would you believe it," he said in wonder, shaking his head.
We each gave a little rueful chuckle and I went back inside and closed the door and that was it.
strangereality52
05.12.04 (1:28 am) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
The parcel I was expecting from Amazon UK finally turned up last Friday. It turns out that they had 'helpfully' delayed delivery so as to include a book that was out of stock. This has saved me postage costs of course, but I still would've preferred immediate delivery of the items that were available, especially when I had [i]specifically chosen that option on my order[/i]... Never mind though: they're here now, and that's what counts.
One of the items was the DVD of [i]Kill Bill [/i]Volume 1. I have since watched it twice and I have to say that all the negative reviews it attracted upon release are totally unjustified. Films that [i]know[/i] they're films and play with the viewer's expectations might be too much for some perople's tastes but I actually [i]like[/i] not knowing just what the hell will happen next. I also like the jumbled chronology that Tarantino is so fond of. The episode of Manga was a genius touch. And the music is superb - okay, at times it's like watching a pop promo video, but as the man himself says in [i]The Making Of[/i] featurette, when you marry the right image or sequence with the right piece of music, there is nothing more memorable in film. And there are many such moments in this film. Earlier this evening I downloaded the soundtrack and haven't stopped listening to it since. Perhaps this more than anything else is Tarantino's secret: that he [i]casts[/i] the music for his films, rather than simply choosing it.
I'll have to get myself to the cinema sometime this week and take in Volume 2 while my enthusiasm for it is still fresh. I did try and download it earlier as well but the waiting time was 99 hours. I took a rain check on that one.
The parcel I was expecting from Amazon UK finally turned up last Friday. It turns out that they had 'helpfully' delayed delivery so as to include a book that was out of stock. This has saved me postage costs of course, but I still would've preferred immediate delivery of the items that were available, especially when I had [i]specifically chosen that option on my order[/i]... Never mind though: they're here now, and that's what counts.
One of the items was the DVD of [i]Kill Bill [/i]Volume 1. I have since watched it twice and I have to say that all the negative reviews it attracted upon release are totally unjustified. Films that [i]know[/i] they're films and play with the viewer's expectations might be too much for some perople's tastes but I actually [i]like[/i] not knowing just what the hell will happen next. I also like the jumbled chronology that Tarantino is so fond of. The episode of Manga was a genius touch. And the music is superb - okay, at times it's like watching a pop promo video, but as the man himself says in [i]The Making Of[/i] featurette, when you marry the right image or sequence with the right piece of music, there is nothing more memorable in film. And there are many such moments in this film. Earlier this evening I downloaded the soundtrack and haven't stopped listening to it since. Perhaps this more than anything else is Tarantino's secret: that he [i]casts[/i] the music for his films, rather than simply choosing it.
I'll have to get myself to the cinema sometime this week and take in Volume 2 while my enthusiasm for it is still fresh. I did try and download it earlier as well but the waiting time was 99 hours. I took a rain check on that one.
strangereality51
05.10.04 (9:26 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
This is definitely the final instalment in the saga of my lost library ticket. Today I went to report it lost. I presented myself at the library counter this afternoon. A male librarian strolled over to help me. He was in his early 40s, bald, bespectacled, thin-voiced. He was also wearing the kind of brown sweater that somebody has to knit for you. Male librarians: they give the impression of having made tough life-choices in the past. Do they go for librarianship, or for that career as a strangler that they've always dreamt about? My librarian today had taken the road more travelled, and his compromise obviously haunted him.
"Can I help you?" he said.
"I'd like to report a lost library ticket," I said.
"Right..."
Time passed. He gazed at me impassively. This was wrong: he wanted me to spur him into action. I wanted him to start doing whatever it was that needed doing in order for my ex-ticket to be registered as lost, before some bugger walked out of some library with an armful of DVDs and CDs in my name. So come on, pal, get a move on will you.
In the end I had to say: "Could you see if it's been handed in?"
It was as though I'd prodded him with a riot stick. He [i]blurred[/i] across his workspace to a cabinet where he retrieved a plastic box containing handed-in library tickets. As I watched, he riffled through the first few. Then he asked me what my name was, and started again. My ticket wasn't there.
"Could you check to see if anyone's used it this morning," I said.
He turned to a PC on the counter and frowned at it for a few seconds. Perhaps he was calculating how many people he would have strangled by this stage in his alternative career. The screen lit up and he asked me my name again. I said my name and he just looked at me in outright shock. Slowly, I spelt out my difficult-to-spell Irish surname.
"No," he said finally. "There's been no activity on your ticket for a week."
"Great," I said. "Can I have a replacement please?"
"Of course." He [i]peered[/i] at me over the rims of his spectacles, schoolteacher-style. "You do know that'll cost you £1:50, don't you?" He seemed very worried for me.
"That's fine."
So he whipped out a form for me to fill in, and I filled it in. Then came the moment that he had to transfer my new details to the computer. Oddly, instead of simply consulting the form I'd just filled in, he had me dictate its contents to him as he typed. I read out my name again ("no, [i]not[/i] double-r, just [i]r[/i]...."), my address, my date of birth, and finally the new ticket's barcode number. Then he presented me with my new library ticket. It's sitting here on the desk next to me as I type. I'll never let it go again.
This is definitely the final instalment in the saga of my lost library ticket. Today I went to report it lost. I presented myself at the library counter this afternoon. A male librarian strolled over to help me. He was in his early 40s, bald, bespectacled, thin-voiced. He was also wearing the kind of brown sweater that somebody has to knit for you. Male librarians: they give the impression of having made tough life-choices in the past. Do they go for librarianship, or for that career as a strangler that they've always dreamt about? My librarian today had taken the road more travelled, and his compromise obviously haunted him.
"Can I help you?" he said.
"I'd like to report a lost library ticket," I said.
"Right..."
Time passed. He gazed at me impassively. This was wrong: he wanted me to spur him into action. I wanted him to start doing whatever it was that needed doing in order for my ex-ticket to be registered as lost, before some bugger walked out of some library with an armful of DVDs and CDs in my name. So come on, pal, get a move on will you.
In the end I had to say: "Could you see if it's been handed in?"
It was as though I'd prodded him with a riot stick. He [i]blurred[/i] across his workspace to a cabinet where he retrieved a plastic box containing handed-in library tickets. As I watched, he riffled through the first few. Then he asked me what my name was, and started again. My ticket wasn't there.
"Could you check to see if anyone's used it this morning," I said.
He turned to a PC on the counter and frowned at it for a few seconds. Perhaps he was calculating how many people he would have strangled by this stage in his alternative career. The screen lit up and he asked me my name again. I said my name and he just looked at me in outright shock. Slowly, I spelt out my difficult-to-spell Irish surname.
"No," he said finally. "There's been no activity on your ticket for a week."
"Great," I said. "Can I have a replacement please?"
"Of course." He [i]peered[/i] at me over the rims of his spectacles, schoolteacher-style. "You do know that'll cost you £1:50, don't you?" He seemed very worried for me.
"That's fine."
So he whipped out a form for me to fill in, and I filled it in. Then came the moment that he had to transfer my new details to the computer. Oddly, instead of simply consulting the form I'd just filled in, he had me dictate its contents to him as he typed. I read out my name again ("no, [i]not[/i] double-r, just [i]r[/i]...."), my address, my date of birth, and finally the new ticket's barcode number. Then he presented me with my new library ticket. It's sitting here on the desk next to me as I type. I'll never let it go again.
strangereality50
05.10.04 (12:25 am) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
I received another text message from Steve. He wanted to know if I was up for another all-day drinking session one day this week. (It was a tactical error to tell him about my holiday.) I texted: "Yeah... Maybe." It was the coward's way out: I've no intention of going on an all-dayer with Steve at any time in the near future. But Steve was enthused. It must be getting on for 4 years since we last painted the town red - or, considering my diminished capacity for alcohol, painted it a light shade of green and purple and orange. Steve texted me back: "You missed a great one yesterday, mate." (Or 'm8' as they say.) I texted Steve, saying: "I lost my library ticket yesterday while calling you. Major pain." Steve replied: "That's what you get for liking books."
I received another text message from Steve. He wanted to know if I was up for another all-day drinking session one day this week. (It was a tactical error to tell him about my holiday.) I texted: "Yeah... Maybe." It was the coward's way out: I've no intention of going on an all-dayer with Steve at any time in the near future. But Steve was enthused. It must be getting on for 4 years since we last painted the town red - or, considering my diminished capacity for alcohol, painted it a light shade of green and purple and orange. Steve texted me back: "You missed a great one yesterday, mate." (Or 'm8' as they say.) I texted Steve, saying: "I lost my library ticket yesterday while calling you. Major pain." Steve replied: "That's what you get for liking books."
strangereality49
05.08.04 (5:40 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
I have lost my library ticket. What a rock 'n' roll sentence that is.... I love it so much that I must reiterate it: I have lost my library ticket. What a thrilling life I lead.
I was out walking - not going anywhere, just exercising - and it occurred to me to call Steve, an old friend who keeps text-messaging me to ask me if I'm up for an 'all-dayer' anytime soon. An 'all-dayer' is a recent phenomenon where its participants meet up at a pub at 11 a.m. or thereabouts and, as the name suggests, stay out drinking all day. In the past I have rolled in from these 12-hour pub crawls feeling decidedly [i]bad[/i]... Times have changed and I don't do 'all-dayers' much anymore: I have no drinking stamina. But Steve is still very much in the zone when it comes to all-dayers and he does keep pestering me to join him on one. So I was out walking today and thought the least I could do was call him up and give him another bullshit excuse.
I was walking past the church about a half-mile from my house. My mobile phone was in my coat's inside pocket. I reached into the pocket, grasped the phone's bulky smoothness, took it out, and scrolled through my list of numbers. STEVE, said one. I pressed the call button and held the phone to my ear. It rang for a minute and then went to his voicemail. I said: "Steve! It's [Lord Strange] here. Sorry mate, can't make it for a drink today, I've got a lot to do at home. Tell you what, I'll give you a call in the week and we'll sort summat out for next weekend. See you." I replaced my phone in my coat pocket and continued on my walk. On the way back I decided to stop at the local library and maybe get a DVD or two. Something for the weekend.
I didn't see any DVDs but I saw a book on the shelf that I wanted: Douglas Adams' [i]The Salmon Of Doubt[/i], a compendium of his many unfinished works at the time of his death a couple of years ago. I approached the counter, book in hand. This is better than being on an all-dayer, I thought to myself smugly. The librarian twitched an eyebrow at me. I reached into the inside coat pocket where I kept my library ticket...
Only my mobile phone was in the pocket. I backed out of the library, retraced my steps. About 15 minutes had passed and I thought there was a good chance of finding the library ticket nestling in the gutter by the church. Or basking in the weak sunshine on a grassy knoll. Or whatever. I reached the spot where I had taken out my phone and presumably had lost the library ticket. I paced the area in an expanding search pattern for several minutes, squinting at discarded chocolate wrappers and stoutly ignoring the passers-by who were giving me a wide berth. No, I didn't find my library ticket.
I walked back to the library, thinking that at least if I reported the ticket as lost then there was no damage done. The library had closed. The public libraries all close at 4 p.m. on a Saturday. I hurried home and got the library's number from Directory Enquiries. I rang the number. There was no answer. I couldn't report my ticket lost until Monday morning....
On the back of every library ticket issued in this city, there is a caution: [i]The borrower named overleaf is responsible for all items borrowed on this ticket.[/i] I think that somebody must have found my ticket. Perhaps they intend to hand it in to their nearest library, but I can't take that chance. So I must get up on Monday at 9 a.m. to make sure that no one is capable of using my ticket to borrow and keep 8 DVDs, and ultimately costing me £100 or thereabouts.
So this is what my life has become: losing my library ticket and fretting about it.
Rock and roll.
I have lost my library ticket. What a rock 'n' roll sentence that is.... I love it so much that I must reiterate it: I have lost my library ticket. What a thrilling life I lead.
I was out walking - not going anywhere, just exercising - and it occurred to me to call Steve, an old friend who keeps text-messaging me to ask me if I'm up for an 'all-dayer' anytime soon. An 'all-dayer' is a recent phenomenon where its participants meet up at a pub at 11 a.m. or thereabouts and, as the name suggests, stay out drinking all day. In the past I have rolled in from these 12-hour pub crawls feeling decidedly [i]bad[/i]... Times have changed and I don't do 'all-dayers' much anymore: I have no drinking stamina. But Steve is still very much in the zone when it comes to all-dayers and he does keep pestering me to join him on one. So I was out walking today and thought the least I could do was call him up and give him another bullshit excuse.
I was walking past the church about a half-mile from my house. My mobile phone was in my coat's inside pocket. I reached into the pocket, grasped the phone's bulky smoothness, took it out, and scrolled through my list of numbers. STEVE, said one. I pressed the call button and held the phone to my ear. It rang for a minute and then went to his voicemail. I said: "Steve! It's [Lord Strange] here. Sorry mate, can't make it for a drink today, I've got a lot to do at home. Tell you what, I'll give you a call in the week and we'll sort summat out for next weekend. See you." I replaced my phone in my coat pocket and continued on my walk. On the way back I decided to stop at the local library and maybe get a DVD or two. Something for the weekend.
I didn't see any DVDs but I saw a book on the shelf that I wanted: Douglas Adams' [i]The Salmon Of Doubt[/i], a compendium of his many unfinished works at the time of his death a couple of years ago. I approached the counter, book in hand. This is better than being on an all-dayer, I thought to myself smugly. The librarian twitched an eyebrow at me. I reached into the inside coat pocket where I kept my library ticket...
Only my mobile phone was in the pocket. I backed out of the library, retraced my steps. About 15 minutes had passed and I thought there was a good chance of finding the library ticket nestling in the gutter by the church. Or basking in the weak sunshine on a grassy knoll. Or whatever. I reached the spot where I had taken out my phone and presumably had lost the library ticket. I paced the area in an expanding search pattern for several minutes, squinting at discarded chocolate wrappers and stoutly ignoring the passers-by who were giving me a wide berth. No, I didn't find my library ticket.
I walked back to the library, thinking that at least if I reported the ticket as lost then there was no damage done. The library had closed. The public libraries all close at 4 p.m. on a Saturday. I hurried home and got the library's number from Directory Enquiries. I rang the number. There was no answer. I couldn't report my ticket lost until Monday morning....
On the back of every library ticket issued in this city, there is a caution: [i]The borrower named overleaf is responsible for all items borrowed on this ticket.[/i] I think that somebody must have found my ticket. Perhaps they intend to hand it in to their nearest library, but I can't take that chance. So I must get up on Monday at 9 a.m. to make sure that no one is capable of using my ticket to borrow and keep 8 DVDs, and ultimately costing me £100 or thereabouts.
So this is what my life has become: losing my library ticket and fretting about it.
Rock and roll.
strangereality48
05.06.04 (6:00 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Some completely disconnected, random thoughts today (whaddaya mean, "so what's different?"!):
*Internet schminternet. Monday night I ordered 3 items from Amazon, next-day dispatch 'guaranteed'. Needless to say I've only just now, today, Thursday, received the e-mail confirming dispatch. Maybe it's an Amazon UK problem. Maybe it's a [i]UK[/i] problem.
*People who go to watch skiing, cycling, showjumping etc etc. This phenomenon has always puzzled and amused me. I don't know anyone who goes to watch cycling (for example). And I'm pretty sure that no one I know knows anyone who goes to watch cycling. And yet you watch skiing or cycling or whatever the next time it's on TV: there they are, the hundreds, the [i]thousands[/i] of spectators. Lining the roads, perched on chairs, standing behind hedges, cheering and waving the cyclists on. Who are these spectators? Where do they come from?
*The cashpoint pause. (That's 'ATM pause' to all you North Americans.) I've mentioned this before, but it has just happened again. Two people were ahead of me in the cashpoint queue. Me behind them, and in a hurry. Both of them in turn withdrew their cash and re-walleted their cards. Their transactions were complete. But no: [i]they lingered for several seconds to watch the cashpoint in case it did something unexpected...[/i] I fumed. I really was in a hurry. Eventually I got to the front. I collected my cash, and received my card back. Then, just like my predecessors, I watched the machine in case it spat out all the rest of my cash once it thought my back was turned.....
*Why would anyone want to visit a Museum of Transport?
*Doodling. At work lately I've taken to doodling complex spirals across whole A4-sized pages of scrap paper. This is during particularly demanding moments. Spirals: hundreds of 'em. I have no clue what they mean. I disbelieve in the theories of Sigmund Freud, which brings me to my next point...
*The unconscious mind. It was one of Freud's central hypotheses. The term and the concept have both entered current language-uses. Our thought processes contain the [i]theory[/i] of the unconscious mind not as the figure of speech which it ought to be but as an indisputable fact of reality. [i]Yet its existence has never been demonstrated.[/i] It is assumed that it 'must exist' because of certain observable 'effects', but the same argument can be made for the existence of a Deity.
*Finally, a silly, but Zen-like joke that I heard the other day: An Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman walk into a pub. The landlord looks at them and says: "Is this some kind of joke?"
Some completely disconnected, random thoughts today (whaddaya mean, "so what's different?"!):
*Internet schminternet. Monday night I ordered 3 items from Amazon, next-day dispatch 'guaranteed'. Needless to say I've only just now, today, Thursday, received the e-mail confirming dispatch. Maybe it's an Amazon UK problem. Maybe it's a [i]UK[/i] problem.
*People who go to watch skiing, cycling, showjumping etc etc. This phenomenon has always puzzled and amused me. I don't know anyone who goes to watch cycling (for example). And I'm pretty sure that no one I know knows anyone who goes to watch cycling. And yet you watch skiing or cycling or whatever the next time it's on TV: there they are, the hundreds, the [i]thousands[/i] of spectators. Lining the roads, perched on chairs, standing behind hedges, cheering and waving the cyclists on. Who are these spectators? Where do they come from?
*The cashpoint pause. (That's 'ATM pause' to all you North Americans.) I've mentioned this before, but it has just happened again. Two people were ahead of me in the cashpoint queue. Me behind them, and in a hurry. Both of them in turn withdrew their cash and re-walleted their cards. Their transactions were complete. But no: [i]they lingered for several seconds to watch the cashpoint in case it did something unexpected...[/i] I fumed. I really was in a hurry. Eventually I got to the front. I collected my cash, and received my card back. Then, just like my predecessors, I watched the machine in case it spat out all the rest of my cash once it thought my back was turned.....
*Why would anyone want to visit a Museum of Transport?
*Doodling. At work lately I've taken to doodling complex spirals across whole A4-sized pages of scrap paper. This is during particularly demanding moments. Spirals: hundreds of 'em. I have no clue what they mean. I disbelieve in the theories of Sigmund Freud, which brings me to my next point...
*The unconscious mind. It was one of Freud's central hypotheses. The term and the concept have both entered current language-uses. Our thought processes contain the [i]theory[/i] of the unconscious mind not as the figure of speech which it ought to be but as an indisputable fact of reality. [i]Yet its existence has never been demonstrated.[/i] It is assumed that it 'must exist' because of certain observable 'effects', but the same argument can be made for the existence of a Deity.
*Finally, a silly, but Zen-like joke that I heard the other day: An Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman walk into a pub. The landlord looks at them and says: "Is this some kind of joke?"
strangereality47
05.04.04 (2:47 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Ow, my head. Last night I met up in town with a group of people from work. There was no real occasion, nobody's birthday or anything. It's just been a while since we all went out on the town together. It's a very social place, my office: you could go out drinking after work every night if you wanted to, and you would always have company. When I first started there, it was like a year-long University fresher's week. Rare were the mornings when I didn't sit down at my desk with a thudding hangover. But in the past year I've drawn back from socialising with colleagues. The novelty has worn off. So it was only after many requests, pleas, and threats that I agreed to meet up with them all last night. At 7:30 prompt I left the house. I was wearing an awful blue shirt and cheap supermarket deodorant. I caught the bus into town and met up with the gang at a pub.
It was a good turn-out. Nobody had not shown up. There were 20-odd folk at the pub, gathered around two huge oaken tables that we had pushed together. The pub was the mock-Tudor sort - all low ceilings and black beams - that is specifically designed to impress tourists. Completely bogus, of course: I'm older than that pub.
The drink flowed, and the bullshit flowed not long thereafter. I regaled my little corner with inebriated tall stories. Amid a large group of people you inevitably end up with a little sub-group of your own, and interact with them more than with everyone else. (And quite often, someone in another sub-group will shout at you across the table, just to touch base with you as it were. And you do likewise: you shout hello at people in other sub-groups, just to 'top up' your contact with them. This is only prudent, as some random eddy could deposit you and they into a new, fresh sub-group. And you wouldn't want to start from scratch with them, now would you?)
Later on, quite drunk, I went with the hardcore members to the nearest nightclub. It's mainly a blur: I kept losing sight of the others and wandering around on my own holding plastic glasses of vodka that I swigged from a bit too much. Then I was sitting on the stairs, smiling at nothing. The music was 'Sit Down' by James, a true anthemic Indie favourite. Some people stopped in front of me. Some of my colleagues. "Where is everyone?" Nobody knew. We were all reunited eventually and after several more drinks I was pulled onto the dancefloor by three of the girls. Shrieking harpies. Dancing. They danced around me and blocked my exit. (Now I know what a handbag must feel like.) I had no choice - it was dance or be trampled. Those girls: they're not like that at work...
I got a burger at the stand outside while we waited for taxis. Grease and ketchup oozed down my chin. It was raining but everyone was drunk and uncaring. The dancing girls were sharing my taxi. We were the last to leave. As we waited we were approached by two smiling young women in khaki clothing. "Do you believe in Jesus?" I shook my head. They walked away.
Ow, my head. Last night I met up in town with a group of people from work. There was no real occasion, nobody's birthday or anything. It's just been a while since we all went out on the town together. It's a very social place, my office: you could go out drinking after work every night if you wanted to, and you would always have company. When I first started there, it was like a year-long University fresher's week. Rare were the mornings when I didn't sit down at my desk with a thudding hangover. But in the past year I've drawn back from socialising with colleagues. The novelty has worn off. So it was only after many requests, pleas, and threats that I agreed to meet up with them all last night. At 7:30 prompt I left the house. I was wearing an awful blue shirt and cheap supermarket deodorant. I caught the bus into town and met up with the gang at a pub.
It was a good turn-out. Nobody had not shown up. There were 20-odd folk at the pub, gathered around two huge oaken tables that we had pushed together. The pub was the mock-Tudor sort - all low ceilings and black beams - that is specifically designed to impress tourists. Completely bogus, of course: I'm older than that pub.
The drink flowed, and the bullshit flowed not long thereafter. I regaled my little corner with inebriated tall stories. Amid a large group of people you inevitably end up with a little sub-group of your own, and interact with them more than with everyone else. (And quite often, someone in another sub-group will shout at you across the table, just to touch base with you as it were. And you do likewise: you shout hello at people in other sub-groups, just to 'top up' your contact with them. This is only prudent, as some random eddy could deposit you and they into a new, fresh sub-group. And you wouldn't want to start from scratch with them, now would you?)
Later on, quite drunk, I went with the hardcore members to the nearest nightclub. It's mainly a blur: I kept losing sight of the others and wandering around on my own holding plastic glasses of vodka that I swigged from a bit too much. Then I was sitting on the stairs, smiling at nothing. The music was 'Sit Down' by James, a true anthemic Indie favourite. Some people stopped in front of me. Some of my colleagues. "Where is everyone?" Nobody knew. We were all reunited eventually and after several more drinks I was pulled onto the dancefloor by three of the girls. Shrieking harpies. Dancing. They danced around me and blocked my exit. (Now I know what a handbag must feel like.) I had no choice - it was dance or be trampled. Those girls: they're not like that at work...
I got a burger at the stand outside while we waited for taxis. Grease and ketchup oozed down my chin. It was raining but everyone was drunk and uncaring. The dancing girls were sharing my taxi. We were the last to leave. As we waited we were approached by two smiling young women in khaki clothing. "Do you believe in Jesus?" I shook my head. They walked away.
strangereality46
05.03.04 (6:25 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Today is another public holiday. The first Monday of every May is a public holiday. And there'll be another one at the end of the month, on the last Monday - the Whitsun public holiday. I love it: between late March and May, with Easter factored into things, there is hardly a full working week to be endured. It's a very special time of year for those who are [i]wage-earning slaves[/i] rather than happy and willing workers. After Whitsun it's a long hot summer crawl to August, when the last Monday of that month will be a public holiday as well. I'm looking forward to it already.
And yet Britain has the least amount of public holidays in Europe. Every so often one or more of the political parties moots the idea of having an Autumn public holiday one Monday in October. This would require legislation. But the plan mysteriously disappears, because the so-called 'business community' doesn't like it. "What about the cost to industry!" says the so-called 'business community'. Bah. The economy is supposed to exist for the benefit of people, not people for the benefit of the economy. It's as though the Establishment cannot conceive of the worker (sorry: the wage-earning slave) as being anything other than a function of the economy. Cf. Aldous Huxley's [i]Brave New World[/i]. Every word of it has come true in some fashion. Not to mention George Orwell's [i]1984[/i] and its depiction of citizens sitting in front of screens and being subject to incessant propaganda as a motivating tool in an endless global war....
'George Orwell' was a pseudonym, of course. He thought his real name wasn't 'writerly' enough. His real name was [i]Eric Blair[/i]....
But I have strayed from the subject: the greatness of holidays, the simple pleasure of spending my time how I wish, the sheer relief of not being forced to socialise with people if I don't want to.
Soon I will have 2 full weeks' holiday from work. I booked it in a blaze of publicity, with several managers shouting across the office to me and each other. People asked me: "Two weeks off, hey? Where are you going?" I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying indoors and doing my own thing. When I take holidays [i]I take holidays from people[/i]....
In many ways, I am such a misanthrope. In other ways, I'm not.
Today is another public holiday. The first Monday of every May is a public holiday. And there'll be another one at the end of the month, on the last Monday - the Whitsun public holiday. I love it: between late March and May, with Easter factored into things, there is hardly a full working week to be endured. It's a very special time of year for those who are [i]wage-earning slaves[/i] rather than happy and willing workers. After Whitsun it's a long hot summer crawl to August, when the last Monday of that month will be a public holiday as well. I'm looking forward to it already.
And yet Britain has the least amount of public holidays in Europe. Every so often one or more of the political parties moots the idea of having an Autumn public holiday one Monday in October. This would require legislation. But the plan mysteriously disappears, because the so-called 'business community' doesn't like it. "What about the cost to industry!" says the so-called 'business community'. Bah. The economy is supposed to exist for the benefit of people, not people for the benefit of the economy. It's as though the Establishment cannot conceive of the worker (sorry: the wage-earning slave) as being anything other than a function of the economy. Cf. Aldous Huxley's [i]Brave New World[/i]. Every word of it has come true in some fashion. Not to mention George Orwell's [i]1984[/i] and its depiction of citizens sitting in front of screens and being subject to incessant propaganda as a motivating tool in an endless global war....
'George Orwell' was a pseudonym, of course. He thought his real name wasn't 'writerly' enough. His real name was [i]Eric Blair[/i]....
But I have strayed from the subject: the greatness of holidays, the simple pleasure of spending my time how I wish, the sheer relief of not being forced to socialise with people if I don't want to.
Soon I will have 2 full weeks' holiday from work. I booked it in a blaze of publicity, with several managers shouting across the office to me and each other. People asked me: "Two weeks off, hey? Where are you going?" I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying indoors and doing my own thing. When I take holidays [i]I take holidays from people[/i]....
In many ways, I am such a misanthrope. In other ways, I'm not.
strangereality45
05.01.04 (10:17 pm) [edit]
Welcome to reality. Within 'reality' all kinds of things exist. The following is a random selection from reality.
Walking along the street in town earlier I saw a little group of people ahead. Three or four of them, all women, standing in a rough semi-circle around something on the ground that they were all looking down at. As I neared, I saw that it was an elderly woman lying on the ground in front of them. Evidently, she had fallen over in the street. And these kind ladies had come to her aid. One of the helpers was using a mobile phone to summon more aid. There was no need for me to stop. I would have, if needed. But there was no need.
I walked a little to the side. As I passed the spot, I looked directly down at the elderly lady. She lay flat on her back. I thought she was about 80. She was grey-haired and wizened. She was wearing traditional old ladies' garb: a heavy grey overcoat and a floral-patterned dress. Her hands were up across her chest, tightly clutching the handles of a shopping bag. It didn't look very full but she was not about to let it go. The people helping her were doing a fine job. One was squatting down and patting her forehead. "Don't you worry, love. You'll be up and about again in no time."
This is what struck me about the scene, and what is making me shudder even now: the old lady's blue eyes were wide open. She was staring unblinkingly into the sky. The expression on her face was one of [i]embarrassed bewilderment[/i]. All the years of life that she had enjoyed - the parties and holidays, the husband and the children, the birthdays and Christmases and springtimes, and all the rest of it. And, now, [i]that it should come to this[/i]... Laying on the pavement, feeble and helpless, at the mercy of strangers' kindnesses.
I held my gaze on the old lady for the couple of seconds it took me to walk past. Perhaps she was wondering what other indignities were ahead of her. Perhaps it was only me, projecting my morbid imagination. Perhaps she was so far gone that she wasn't thinking anything at all.
Walking along the street in town earlier I saw a little group of people ahead. Three or four of them, all women, standing in a rough semi-circle around something on the ground that they were all looking down at. As I neared, I saw that it was an elderly woman lying on the ground in front of them. Evidently, she had fallen over in the street. And these kind ladies had come to her aid. One of the helpers was using a mobile phone to summon more aid. There was no need for me to stop. I would have, if needed. But there was no need.
I walked a little to the side. As I passed the spot, I looked directly down at the elderly lady. She lay flat on her back. I thought she was about 80. She was grey-haired and wizened. She was wearing traditional old ladies' garb: a heavy grey overcoat and a floral-patterned dress. Her hands were up across her chest, tightly clutching the handles of a shopping bag. It didn't look very full but she was not about to let it go. The people helping her were doing a fine job. One was squatting down and patting her forehead. "Don't you worry, love. You'll be up and about again in no time."
This is what struck me about the scene, and what is making me shudder even now: the old lady's blue eyes were wide open. She was staring unblinkingly into the sky. The expression on her face was one of [i]embarrassed bewilderment[/i]. All the years of life that she had enjoyed - the parties and holidays, the husband and the children, the birthdays and Christmases and springtimes, and all the rest of it. And, now, [i]that it should come to this[/i]... Laying on the pavement, feeble and helpless, at the mercy of strangers' kindnesses.
I held my gaze on the old lady for the couple of seconds it took me to walk past. Perhaps she was wondering what other indignities were ahead of her. Perhaps it was only me, projecting my morbid imagination. Perhaps she was so far gone that she wasn't thinking anything at all.