One of my favourite past times is people watching. Not in a freaky, bunny boiling stalker kind of way you understand. Just in a friendly, busybody kind of way.
So, being in a new job with completely new people has been fascinating. The honeymoon period is drawing to a close now I think because the winning smiles are slipping off faces like butter off a warm spud.
It would appear that people can only sustain an image of themselves for a limited time. The duration depends perhaps on the energy and focus of the individual. I come to this conclusion having considered the actions and comments of others around me.
Take Mrs Alabama for instance. She calls herself Mrs although she has never been married. She wishes to be known as Agnes although her real name is Myrtle. She refused categorically to give her National Insurance number to the admin officer because it was 'wholly private'.
Mrs Alabama has hair like an afghan hound but lacks the associated grace of movement. This, she has decided, should be remedied by a personal trainer based at a former army barracks - complete with an authentic army assault course. Thus, every Wednesday she takes her wafting hair and chubby body over the bridge and far away to be shouted at by an ex squaddie with issues. I'm not sure how her hair copes with assault course trauma but the rest of her has had three sprains and a broken bone since she decided to 'get fit'. All this at the tender age of 64 and three quarters - nat ins details notwithstanding.
In addition to her daytime job, Agnes has a nice little sideline going. On evenings other than Wednesday she runs a website for clan related merchandise. She confided to a colleague that she aims to corner the US market in tartan kitch because 'Americans will buy anything with a clan name on it'. Amid a profusion of tea towels, fridge magnets and assorted other teuchter tat she plots world domination in tartan bibs and rompers. [ Ye gods ]
Mrs Alabama isn't alone in her eccentricity however. Mrs Louisiana, who is genuinely married, spends her day rooting through boxes searching for treasure such as fake fur stoles and straw hats. These she wears during tea breaks. Don't ask me why. She's retiring soon and that's probably for the best.
I could fill the entire blogger website with further details but I'll stop for now and return to this shortly. It's a rich seam to mine...
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Stress busting
Sorry for the hiatus but I'm back firing on all cylinders - witter wise anyway.
This post is on the topic of stress and how it is managed. Or not. Different types of stress trigger different reactions in me. Good stress is usually work related and involves deadlines and challenge. Bad stress always involves family or money issues.
Recently though, I've had occasion to witness the effects stress has on others.
As a new manager, it's been fascinating and frankly bewildering to see the staff freaking out as deadlines approach. When I was in their position I managed my time, knowing that these deadlines lay ahead. Work had to be prioritised and completed accordingly. These people don't seem to work that way.
Ohhhhhhhhhhh no.
Their preferred technique appears to be: leave everything to the last minute and then spin feverishly on the spot, creating a maelstrom of A4 paperwork in the process. I've honestly never seen anything like it.
Part of me thinks - what's wrong with these people? and the other part thinks - what have the previous managers been doing all year? Or rather not doing!
For the past three weeks people have been sprinting past me, panic stricken and sweaty [I'll come back to the sweaty bit later in the blog]as they hurtle towards heart attacks or some well hidden alcohol. I've tried to help the most beleaguered ones who really are so young they don't know any better but the more 'experienced' staff should know better.
Having asked if there are problems at home adding to the stress, I'm assured not. Why then has everything been left till now? These deadlines are annual and should come as a surprise to no-one. The newbies should be warned of them as part of their induction and the older hands should be familiar with the whole process. It's really NOT rocket science.
Anyway, the deadline has passed and I'll be in tomorrow to see if anything has changed i.e. if the wild eyed terror has gone and the blood pressure has dropped back to normal.
Speaking of blood pressure, one member of staff told me her doc wants her to have an ecg etc because her BP is so high. She thinks it is entirely due to her workload but I suspect her sumo sized body mass on a 5'5" skeleton might have something to do with it. And here, dear reader, we return to the sweaty reference made earlier.
My line manager wanted me to tackle this member of staff about body odour. The room she occupies has its own distinctive scent which would benefit from a Glade plug in or ten. Apparently my boss took exception to the odour when the staff member left a vapour trail behind her in the boss's office. In the nicest possible way I told my boss that her interpersonal skills far outweighed mine and that she should tackle that sensitive issue in her own impeccable way. Exit me, chuckling.
The boss took it well and I'm hoping that she doesn't deal with her stress by giving me all the literally stinky jobs she hates. If so, I may visit my doc and asked to be signed off - due to stress. :0)
This post is on the topic of stress and how it is managed. Or not. Different types of stress trigger different reactions in me. Good stress is usually work related and involves deadlines and challenge. Bad stress always involves family or money issues.
Recently though, I've had occasion to witness the effects stress has on others.
As a new manager, it's been fascinating and frankly bewildering to see the staff freaking out as deadlines approach. When I was in their position I managed my time, knowing that these deadlines lay ahead. Work had to be prioritised and completed accordingly. These people don't seem to work that way.
Ohhhhhhhhhhh no.
Their preferred technique appears to be: leave everything to the last minute and then spin feverishly on the spot, creating a maelstrom of A4 paperwork in the process. I've honestly never seen anything like it.
Part of me thinks - what's wrong with these people? and the other part thinks - what have the previous managers been doing all year? Or rather not doing!
For the past three weeks people have been sprinting past me, panic stricken and sweaty [I'll come back to the sweaty bit later in the blog]as they hurtle towards heart attacks or some well hidden alcohol. I've tried to help the most beleaguered ones who really are so young they don't know any better but the more 'experienced' staff should know better.
Having asked if there are problems at home adding to the stress, I'm assured not. Why then has everything been left till now? These deadlines are annual and should come as a surprise to no-one. The newbies should be warned of them as part of their induction and the older hands should be familiar with the whole process. It's really NOT rocket science.
Anyway, the deadline has passed and I'll be in tomorrow to see if anything has changed i.e. if the wild eyed terror has gone and the blood pressure has dropped back to normal.
Speaking of blood pressure, one member of staff told me her doc wants her to have an ecg etc because her BP is so high. She thinks it is entirely due to her workload but I suspect her sumo sized body mass on a 5'5" skeleton might have something to do with it. And here, dear reader, we return to the sweaty reference made earlier.
My line manager wanted me to tackle this member of staff about body odour. The room she occupies has its own distinctive scent which would benefit from a Glade plug in or ten. Apparently my boss took exception to the odour when the staff member left a vapour trail behind her in the boss's office. In the nicest possible way I told my boss that her interpersonal skills far outweighed mine and that she should tackle that sensitive issue in her own impeccable way. Exit me, chuckling.
The boss took it well and I'm hoping that she doesn't deal with her stress by giving me all the literally stinky jobs she hates. If so, I may visit my doc and asked to be signed off - due to stress. :0)
Sunday, 24 May 2009
Yikes!
This Witter, dear reader, very nearly didn't make it to the blog. Some random eejit decided to hack into my wee nook of the Net to play silly beggars with my welcome flag. Instead of the Saltire, there fluttered a green and yellow one. Had I been more worldly wise I might have paid more attention. Couldn't say which nationality the flag represented, didn't look long enough. Instead I decided to return things to normal. Other than the flag change everything seemed fine.
Not so! As soon as I clicked "remove" my laptop went nuts.
Suddenly the screen was flooded with overlapping error messages and my brain was flooded with every horror story gleefully uttered by IT geeks. Luckily, I have my own resident techy to help me out and a few key taps later we were back in business. [Thank you dear] Hopefully this episode will have been the worst I have to encounter but if this blog disappears into the ether or lies dormant for too long then the chances are I will have been the victim of a more serious attack.
Meanwhile, what else has been happening in the world of Witterdom? Quite a lot actually.
A follower of this blog has trauchled her way up and down a mountain for charity. She was last up and then last down apparently which must have been a bit lonely but 10 out of 10 for consistency and perseverance say I. The mere thought of clambering up a Munro makes me break into a cold sweat, not to mention a packet of chocolate digestives. I am full of admiration [and biscuits]. Especially when her Yikes were accompanied by a fair number of Ouch, Ooh and Ows.
This act of charity - the climb, not the scoffing of sweetmeats - followed the tragic early demise of a friend and colleague. This, for me, is the best kind of remembrance. A shared recognition and celebration of someone's life with a sizeable donation to assist others afflicted by the disease. A group effort, a load of laughs and a sense of positive closure. Great stuff.
On an entirely different note, I've been encountering all sorts of new faces and characters recently. Some appealing, some not so appealing - all interesting. My new role has its ups and downs. I was asked by my boss how best to approach a member of staff with a major BO problem. Ummmm... Usual, subtle tactics had notably failed to register with the hygiene challenged individual so what next? Short of hosing down this person with Dettol we're not sure. Thinking caps on people.
Finally, a completely familiar face quite astounded me yesterday by declaring an interest in following my lead. This person detests change wherever possible and yet is seriously considering applying for a new job. Not more money, not more perks, further from home and probably longer hours and yet this person is very tempted. You could have knocked me down with a feather! This person admits to being nervous but fancies a fresh challenge.
So all in all, there are lots of Yikes! going on in Witterdom but perhaps we all need a little scare now and again.
Not so! As soon as I clicked "remove" my laptop went nuts.
Suddenly the screen was flooded with overlapping error messages and my brain was flooded with every horror story gleefully uttered by IT geeks. Luckily, I have my own resident techy to help me out and a few key taps later we were back in business. [Thank you dear] Hopefully this episode will have been the worst I have to encounter but if this blog disappears into the ether or lies dormant for too long then the chances are I will have been the victim of a more serious attack.
Meanwhile, what else has been happening in the world of Witterdom? Quite a lot actually.
A follower of this blog has trauchled her way up and down a mountain for charity. She was last up and then last down apparently which must have been a bit lonely but 10 out of 10 for consistency and perseverance say I. The mere thought of clambering up a Munro makes me break into a cold sweat, not to mention a packet of chocolate digestives. I am full of admiration [and biscuits]. Especially when her Yikes were accompanied by a fair number of Ouch, Ooh and Ows.
This act of charity - the climb, not the scoffing of sweetmeats - followed the tragic early demise of a friend and colleague. This, for me, is the best kind of remembrance. A shared recognition and celebration of someone's life with a sizeable donation to assist others afflicted by the disease. A group effort, a load of laughs and a sense of positive closure. Great stuff.
On an entirely different note, I've been encountering all sorts of new faces and characters recently. Some appealing, some not so appealing - all interesting. My new role has its ups and downs. I was asked by my boss how best to approach a member of staff with a major BO problem. Ummmm... Usual, subtle tactics had notably failed to register with the hygiene challenged individual so what next? Short of hosing down this person with Dettol we're not sure. Thinking caps on people.
Finally, a completely familiar face quite astounded me yesterday by declaring an interest in following my lead. This person detests change wherever possible and yet is seriously considering applying for a new job. Not more money, not more perks, further from home and probably longer hours and yet this person is very tempted. You could have knocked me down with a feather! This person admits to being nervous but fancies a fresh challenge.
So all in all, there are lots of Yikes! going on in Witterdom but perhaps we all need a little scare now and again.
Saturday, 16 May 2009
Things to make you go hmmm... Part II
Reader, I am in a quandary and am using this blog as a means to crystallise my thinking. Having begun to settle into my new role I find myself once more considering the option to move house. This dilemma has come about following an egg-lobbed-at-window incident.
Now, His Nibs believes this incident to be purely co-incidental but I'm not so sure. It may be that his one time collaring of one of the local neds continues to generate ill feeling among the Valley mafia but perhaps not. We may be the unlucky victims of a random act of juvenile eggery but again perhaps not. The prospect of endlessly having to sluice egg splat from glass is not appealing.[Egg is remarkably diligent in the mess making department.]I'm not a fan of housework at the best of times so extra is not a welcome direction.
Some time ago His Nibs and I toyed with the idea of buying a particularly attractive, roomy and clearly missile-free new house. It would mean a significantly increased monthly outlay and sending the retirement deadline into our dotage. We decided that, on balance, it made sense to stay put until the bonny boys had left home and we could downsize.
It seems however that the boys will be staying with us for another couple of decades. Sigh.
Plus, it transpires that the Twins Next Door are about to invade my workaday world. It's bad enough that they can be heard, through our shared wall, joyously leaping from wardrobes at 2 am or testing the echo factor of the close until the harling itself commits suicide.
I've cheerfully tossed balls, frisbees and shuttlecocks back over the fence but dread the day they acquire one of those mega trampolines and I see their wild eyed faces bobbing up and down while I try to hide under a judiciously tilted garden parasol.
It's only a matter of time. And when that happens it won't just be the harling lying limp in the close...
So, dear reader, do we sell our souls for a piece of domestic bliss or wait in an affordable home, subject to human shriek fiends and random poultry missiles?
Now, His Nibs believes this incident to be purely co-incidental but I'm not so sure. It may be that his one time collaring of one of the local neds continues to generate ill feeling among the Valley mafia but perhaps not. We may be the unlucky victims of a random act of juvenile eggery but again perhaps not. The prospect of endlessly having to sluice egg splat from glass is not appealing.[Egg is remarkably diligent in the mess making department.]I'm not a fan of housework at the best of times so extra is not a welcome direction.
Some time ago His Nibs and I toyed with the idea of buying a particularly attractive, roomy and clearly missile-free new house. It would mean a significantly increased monthly outlay and sending the retirement deadline into our dotage. We decided that, on balance, it made sense to stay put until the bonny boys had left home and we could downsize.
It seems however that the boys will be staying with us for another couple of decades. Sigh.
Plus, it transpires that the Twins Next Door are about to invade my workaday world. It's bad enough that they can be heard, through our shared wall, joyously leaping from wardrobes at 2 am or testing the echo factor of the close until the harling itself commits suicide.
I've cheerfully tossed balls, frisbees and shuttlecocks back over the fence but dread the day they acquire one of those mega trampolines and I see their wild eyed faces bobbing up and down while I try to hide under a judiciously tilted garden parasol.
It's only a matter of time. And when that happens it won't just be the harling lying limp in the close...
So, dear reader, do we sell our souls for a piece of domestic bliss or wait in an affordable home, subject to human shriek fiends and random poultry missiles?
Sunday, 10 May 2009
It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing...
I may have mentioned somewhere that our garden is a work in progress. That's not quite accurate. Our garden had a major revamp in 2005 and looked fab for about two years. Then Life took over somewhat and the garden was left to its own devices for a bit.
As a consequence we have a wilderness garden of David Attenborough proportions. Billions of birds zip about chasing the trillions of insects zipping about the gazillions of weeds. It's all very eco friendly and tie dyed looking. I wouldn't be surprised if a flock of hairy druids or long lost hippies were lurking in the shrubbery.
Once or twice we've had a bash at weeding, digging, sorting and tidying but I think now even the worms are sniggering at our feeble attempts. It's all very embarrassing. Where once our garden was the envy of the neighbours, they may now grow 40 ft Leylandii simply to block out the mayhem we've created. Can't say I blame them.
In an effort to reinvigorate my drive to enhance our 'outdoor living space' I've decided to treat myself to a garden swing. In my head I see a wooden porch at sunset with a long cool drink to sip as I gently swing upon comfy cushions and a handmade quilt. [I may have been overly influenced by The Waltons as a child and sadly, the coal bings of Fife are not quite the snowy topped mountains of Virginia.] Thus, I've been wandering happily through garden centres in search of The One. By this, I mean my dream swing seat.
To some extent I've felt a bit like Goldilocks. Some swing seats were too large, others too small, yet others too ugly. [There are some bizarre cushion patterns out there in the big bad world of horticulture and leisure you know. Some truly migraine inducing designs - not good.]
I had my heart set on a stylish but sturdy wooden model but the price tag was colossal. I should have been able to buy the whole damn porch with house and mountain thrown in for the price asked.
Recovering my composure, I moved on to another wooden, delightfully rustic swing seat. This one was compact and bijou although the price was only marginally smaller than the original. I moved on again.
With each reduction in cost came a step away from the dream. Eventually I considered the metal framed models. Yuck. Most of them looked like engineering homework projects fashioned by 14 year olds. One though stood out for good reasons. It had a double swing seat which meant two occupants could swing individually or in sync.
I liked it. A lot.
I found myself chuckling and mentally racing Normski. This was the Red Rum of swing seats. [You can reach a fair speed on a swing seat if you try hard enough.]Things got a bit out of hand. A small crowd gathered - to cheer me on I assumed...
NB: Managers in garden centres take a dim view of exuberant use of garden furniture.
As a consequence we have a wilderness garden of David Attenborough proportions. Billions of birds zip about chasing the trillions of insects zipping about the gazillions of weeds. It's all very eco friendly and tie dyed looking. I wouldn't be surprised if a flock of hairy druids or long lost hippies were lurking in the shrubbery.
Once or twice we've had a bash at weeding, digging, sorting and tidying but I think now even the worms are sniggering at our feeble attempts. It's all very embarrassing. Where once our garden was the envy of the neighbours, they may now grow 40 ft Leylandii simply to block out the mayhem we've created. Can't say I blame them.
In an effort to reinvigorate my drive to enhance our 'outdoor living space' I've decided to treat myself to a garden swing. In my head I see a wooden porch at sunset with a long cool drink to sip as I gently swing upon comfy cushions and a handmade quilt. [I may have been overly influenced by The Waltons as a child and sadly, the coal bings of Fife are not quite the snowy topped mountains of Virginia.] Thus, I've been wandering happily through garden centres in search of The One. By this, I mean my dream swing seat.
To some extent I've felt a bit like Goldilocks. Some swing seats were too large, others too small, yet others too ugly. [There are some bizarre cushion patterns out there in the big bad world of horticulture and leisure you know. Some truly migraine inducing designs - not good.]
I had my heart set on a stylish but sturdy wooden model but the price tag was colossal. I should have been able to buy the whole damn porch with house and mountain thrown in for the price asked.
Recovering my composure, I moved on to another wooden, delightfully rustic swing seat. This one was compact and bijou although the price was only marginally smaller than the original. I moved on again.
With each reduction in cost came a step away from the dream. Eventually I considered the metal framed models. Yuck. Most of them looked like engineering homework projects fashioned by 14 year olds. One though stood out for good reasons. It had a double swing seat which meant two occupants could swing individually or in sync.
I liked it. A lot.
I found myself chuckling and mentally racing Normski. This was the Red Rum of swing seats. [You can reach a fair speed on a swing seat if you try hard enough.]Things got a bit out of hand. A small crowd gathered - to cheer me on I assumed...
NB: Managers in garden centres take a dim view of exuberant use of garden furniture.
Saturday, 9 May 2009
Noah had it right
It's been a bit damp here of late. No, scrub that. It's been tipping down. For days. Actually,God seems to be sitting on a celestial cloud somewhere watching for me venturing out the door.
If I stayed inside, the weather stayed nice. One foot over the threshold [any threshold]and down came the deluge. Not only that but God likes to send the deluge when my feet are tucked in cute little strappy numbers. It's hard to look dignified when the hems of your trousers are slopping around like wet ears on a Basset hound and your toes are going blue. I've long believed that God has a tremendous sense of humour.
Normally, looking undignified wouldn't be too much of an issue but this week I started my new job and there's a certain expectation in the role. So, instead of making a suave and sophisticated first impression, I've spent most of my time bedraggled and dripping. Ah well.
On the up side, I've met a lot of nice people and am settling in to a very nice office. My new boss has had the place redecorated and newly furnished for my arrival. All it needs now is the nameplate on the door. [Arrives next week apparently]I'm trying to cope with the frustrations of change but I'm not a patient person. I hate having to waste/take time to set up or learn new access codes and systems etc. I want to be off and running but that's unrealistic after 4 days. Even for me!
I've had to be dragged out the building each night by His Nibs, such has been my desire to get on with things.
In the meantime, Herbert the pot plant is in position and the coffee machine is primed ready for action. I expect there'll be much to Witter about in the coming weeks so watch this space dear reader.
If I stayed inside, the weather stayed nice. One foot over the threshold [any threshold]and down came the deluge. Not only that but God likes to send the deluge when my feet are tucked in cute little strappy numbers. It's hard to look dignified when the hems of your trousers are slopping around like wet ears on a Basset hound and your toes are going blue. I've long believed that God has a tremendous sense of humour.
Normally, looking undignified wouldn't be too much of an issue but this week I started my new job and there's a certain expectation in the role. So, instead of making a suave and sophisticated first impression, I've spent most of my time bedraggled and dripping. Ah well.
On the up side, I've met a lot of nice people and am settling in to a very nice office. My new boss has had the place redecorated and newly furnished for my arrival. All it needs now is the nameplate on the door. [Arrives next week apparently]I'm trying to cope with the frustrations of change but I'm not a patient person. I hate having to waste/take time to set up or learn new access codes and systems etc. I want to be off and running but that's unrealistic after 4 days. Even for me!
I've had to be dragged out the building each night by His Nibs, such has been my desire to get on with things.
In the meantime, Herbert the pot plant is in position and the coffee machine is primed ready for action. I expect there'll be much to Witter about in the coming weeks so watch this space dear reader.
Sunday, 3 May 2009
Phew!
It's a good thing this blog uses no author photos because, trust me dear reader, you wouldn't want to see the state of me this afternoon as I write. This weekend has been jam packed with adventures.
First of all, I'm delighted to mark the arrival of our newest family member. He's a fine looking boy but how his mother managed to deliver him remains a mystery to me. She's a dainty wee thing and he's a hefty bruiser of a baby in comparison. Imagine Tinkerbell producing a bowling ball. Isn't nature marvellous? We were all on tenterhooks waiting for him to appear and now his grand entrance is made.
He chose to arrive the day before my birthday [I was secretly hoping we'd share the day]. This, of course, means I am less likely to forget his birthday and his granny and I agree that all the best people are born in May. My home now has birthday cards vying for shelf space with good luck, sorry you're leaving and congratulations cards. Very cheerful. The work related cards will be decanting to my new office on Tuesday. My birthday was lovely but pretty hectic all in.
As well as my birthday celebrations His Nibs and I were attending a wedding ceilidh in deepest Musselburgh. His Nibs tried out his kilt outfit and found his sporran was missing a tassle [a concern for any self respecting Scotsman] so he took it back to the shop to have it replaced. Thankfully no surgery was required.
Sadly, his relief was shortlived as it later transpired that the replacement sporran was too small and unfit for purpose. I know what you're thinking...
It was a sporran emergency as the outfit is no use without one. There can be no birling of the kilt without a sporran to keep things as and where they should be.
Cue mad phone calls across Fife to source a spare sporran. Time was ticking by and the first dance might have been over before we got there. The phone was red hot. I was calling people I hadn't called in years. Once they stopped laughing people very kindly checked cupboards etc and eventually a sporran was found. Emergency averted.
We made it to the ceilidh and were able to wheech round the dance floor with the best of them. Well, up until my head turned into a pumpkin that is and His Nibs had to take me home. Migraines have no sense of timing whatsoever. Or maybe they do and are the work of the devil...
First of all, I'm delighted to mark the arrival of our newest family member. He's a fine looking boy but how his mother managed to deliver him remains a mystery to me. She's a dainty wee thing and he's a hefty bruiser of a baby in comparison. Imagine Tinkerbell producing a bowling ball. Isn't nature marvellous? We were all on tenterhooks waiting for him to appear and now his grand entrance is made.
He chose to arrive the day before my birthday [I was secretly hoping we'd share the day]. This, of course, means I am less likely to forget his birthday and his granny and I agree that all the best people are born in May. My home now has birthday cards vying for shelf space with good luck, sorry you're leaving and congratulations cards. Very cheerful. The work related cards will be decanting to my new office on Tuesday. My birthday was lovely but pretty hectic all in.
As well as my birthday celebrations His Nibs and I were attending a wedding ceilidh in deepest Musselburgh. His Nibs tried out his kilt outfit and found his sporran was missing a tassle [a concern for any self respecting Scotsman] so he took it back to the shop to have it replaced. Thankfully no surgery was required.
Sadly, his relief was shortlived as it later transpired that the replacement sporran was too small and unfit for purpose. I know what you're thinking...
It was a sporran emergency as the outfit is no use without one. There can be no birling of the kilt without a sporran to keep things as and where they should be.
Cue mad phone calls across Fife to source a spare sporran. Time was ticking by and the first dance might have been over before we got there. The phone was red hot. I was calling people I hadn't called in years. Once they stopped laughing people very kindly checked cupboards etc and eventually a sporran was found. Emergency averted.
We made it to the ceilidh and were able to wheech round the dance floor with the best of them. Well, up until my head turned into a pumpkin that is and His Nibs had to take me home. Migraines have no sense of timing whatsoever. Or maybe they do and are the work of the devil...
Friday, 1 May 2009
Pastures new
My Witter today is on the subject of The Leaving Do. In this uncertain economic climate jobs are scarce and contracts often shortlived. I'm in the very fortunate position however of having secured a new job and have just enjoyed a fantastic send off from colleagues.
To be honest, I wasn't sure quite what to expect. I'd 'left' once before on a long term secondment and had received cards and gifts galore in the expectation that I wouldn't be returning. Consequently, it could be argued there was no need for another raid on the Tea Money. With that in mind, I was quite prepared for a quiet and dignified exit as I handed over my security fob and ID.
Not so fast me bucko...
There was an emotional gathering in the staffroom with strategically placed banners and balloons and exquisitely wrapped parcels which were genuinely too pretty to open. So far, so normal. Then I was presented with a sketch from a highly talented member of the team who did a nice sideline in art work. Unrolling the scroll I fully expected one of his renowned ballerina drawings but Ohhhhhhhh Noooooooooo. He had drawn a caricature of me as a scantily clad Miss Whiplash type; reclining, horse whip in hand. It was brilliant. It's more than a little out of character for me so it was a real hoot.
If that hadn't happened there was a real risk that I might have had a weepy moment as I was leaving friends as well as colleagues. This sketch though was the perfect antidote to farewell tears.
Later, His Nibs came to collect me and loaded up Marvin although the Ugly Bug would have coped better with the baggage. The livingroom is awash with sparkly bags, flowers, balloons and cards. I'm a very lucky Miss Whiplash.
For my night out I opted for bowling and dinner as I didn't want anything too formal and it was great. I tried really hard to come last in the bowling but alas I couldn't secure the wooden spoon. Close but no cigar.
If my new workmates are half as good as those I leave behind, I'll be fine. If not, then I'll just have to buy myself a little riding crop and live up to my new image.
To be honest, I wasn't sure quite what to expect. I'd 'left' once before on a long term secondment and had received cards and gifts galore in the expectation that I wouldn't be returning. Consequently, it could be argued there was no need for another raid on the Tea Money. With that in mind, I was quite prepared for a quiet and dignified exit as I handed over my security fob and ID.
Not so fast me bucko...
There was an emotional gathering in the staffroom with strategically placed banners and balloons and exquisitely wrapped parcels which were genuinely too pretty to open. So far, so normal. Then I was presented with a sketch from a highly talented member of the team who did a nice sideline in art work. Unrolling the scroll I fully expected one of his renowned ballerina drawings but Ohhhhhhhh Noooooooooo. He had drawn a caricature of me as a scantily clad Miss Whiplash type; reclining, horse whip in hand. It was brilliant. It's more than a little out of character for me so it was a real hoot.
If that hadn't happened there was a real risk that I might have had a weepy moment as I was leaving friends as well as colleagues. This sketch though was the perfect antidote to farewell tears.
Later, His Nibs came to collect me and loaded up Marvin although the Ugly Bug would have coped better with the baggage. The livingroom is awash with sparkly bags, flowers, balloons and cards. I'm a very lucky Miss Whiplash.
For my night out I opted for bowling and dinner as I didn't want anything too formal and it was great. I tried really hard to come last in the bowling but alas I couldn't secure the wooden spoon. Close but no cigar.
If my new workmates are half as good as those I leave behind, I'll be fine. If not, then I'll just have to buy myself a little riding crop and live up to my new image.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
The Quest: Concluded
In a previous Witter, I shared our adventures in the quest for a new car.
We had tried a teeny tiny car in an effort to downsize from the wide open comfort of the Ugly Bug; we tried a bigger car which had a suspicious rattle somewhere under the dashboard and we tried yet another which smelled like a fisherman's tacklebox.
Anyhoo, the following weekend we decided to go for a nice walk along a sunny beach. Lovely. We strolled past ecstatic dogs chasing driftwood into the water, past families exploring rockpools and two game but deluded souls attempting to surf ankle height waves. It was very relaxing and refreshing and after we'd enjoyed a leisurely lunch His Nibs suggested we take a little detour on the way home. Lulled into a false sense of security by coffee and pastries, I agreed sleepily.
Shortly after, I found myself being escorted round another showroom far away from Bowing Salesman land and now clearly in uncharted Shiny, Buffed Salesman territory. His Nibs and I ambled around for approx 25 seconds before being set upon by Mike ['I'm old school, me']. He let us pause for a nano second before affixing us with a look not unlike that of a cobra about to strike.
I knew we were facing peril and yet I was transfixed.
Before you could say "Just browsing..." the fatal blow fell. He asked His Nibs to look at the very model which had caught his eye from the car park. Uh oh.
It had been love at first sight and Mike knew it. Poor Bowing Salesman didn't stand a chance. Neither did the savings account.
Suddenly, the deposit was paid and His Nibs was picking up The Big Sexy Beast the following Thursday. I did my best to joust with Mike but it wasn't easy with His Nibs all but self combusting beside me with excitement. It is his dream car. "Those are not headlights dear, they're rocket launchers...". You get the picture.
To cap it all, the Big Sexy Beast has a name.
Black Betty? No. Kit, like from Knightrider? No.
I spend hours jousting for glory and he names the car Marvin.
We had tried a teeny tiny car in an effort to downsize from the wide open comfort of the Ugly Bug; we tried a bigger car which had a suspicious rattle somewhere under the dashboard and we tried yet another which smelled like a fisherman's tacklebox.
Anyhoo, the following weekend we decided to go for a nice walk along a sunny beach. Lovely. We strolled past ecstatic dogs chasing driftwood into the water, past families exploring rockpools and two game but deluded souls attempting to surf ankle height waves. It was very relaxing and refreshing and after we'd enjoyed a leisurely lunch His Nibs suggested we take a little detour on the way home. Lulled into a false sense of security by coffee and pastries, I agreed sleepily.
Shortly after, I found myself being escorted round another showroom far away from Bowing Salesman land and now clearly in uncharted Shiny, Buffed Salesman territory. His Nibs and I ambled around for approx 25 seconds before being set upon by Mike ['I'm old school, me']. He let us pause for a nano second before affixing us with a look not unlike that of a cobra about to strike.
I knew we were facing peril and yet I was transfixed.
Before you could say "Just browsing..." the fatal blow fell. He asked His Nibs to look at the very model which had caught his eye from the car park. Uh oh.
It had been love at first sight and Mike knew it. Poor Bowing Salesman didn't stand a chance. Neither did the savings account.
Suddenly, the deposit was paid and His Nibs was picking up The Big Sexy Beast the following Thursday. I did my best to joust with Mike but it wasn't easy with His Nibs all but self combusting beside me with excitement. It is his dream car. "Those are not headlights dear, they're rocket launchers...". You get the picture.
To cap it all, the Big Sexy Beast has a name.
Black Betty? No. Kit, like from Knightrider? No.
I spend hours jousting for glory and he names the car Marvin.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
Grow for it
Some time ago, a retired ambulanceman told me that a garden reflects much about the life and personality of the owner. This person had reached this conclusion after many years attending hundreds of patients in their home. This person said that in general they could tell from the walk to the front door what might await them inside.
A tidy, well maintained garden usually preceded a tidy, well maintained home. The patient generally enjoyed good mental, physical and emotional health. The visit was usually for an unexpected injury such as a broken limb as opposed to a chronic condition.
A chaotic garden generally reflected a chaotic lifestyle or chronic condition.
Now, I cannot establish the veracity of the theory but it did get me thinking. Our front garden is reasonably tidy but needs new bedding plants and moss removed from the path. The back garden continues to be a work in progress. The soil has been turned over and shrubs pruned but much more is needed. It once looked fabulous but is undergoing a major overhaul. With a bit of effort and some cash it will be a wonderful oasis again.
If the ambulance man's theory is correct or has even a grain of truth in it the whole family will need to lend a hand to get things in order. I'm confident that in time our gardens will say good things about us.
A tidy, well maintained garden usually preceded a tidy, well maintained home. The patient generally enjoyed good mental, physical and emotional health. The visit was usually for an unexpected injury such as a broken limb as opposed to a chronic condition.
A chaotic garden generally reflected a chaotic lifestyle or chronic condition.
Now, I cannot establish the veracity of the theory but it did get me thinking. Our front garden is reasonably tidy but needs new bedding plants and moss removed from the path. The back garden continues to be a work in progress. The soil has been turned over and shrubs pruned but much more is needed. It once looked fabulous but is undergoing a major overhaul. With a bit of effort and some cash it will be a wonderful oasis again.
If the ambulance man's theory is correct or has even a grain of truth in it the whole family will need to lend a hand to get things in order. I'm confident that in time our gardens will say good things about us.
Thursday, 16 April 2009
Busby Berkeley eat your heart out!
Last night I went with friends to see a local AmDram production of the much loved musical, 42nd Street. A work colleague is a member of the chorus so we were showing support. I'd gone for two reasons - I loved the professional production I saw a few years back in the capital and this local Am Dram company enjoys a good reputation.
Now I haven't seen any previous productions but unfortunately this one was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Quite apart from problems with the poorly managed sound system, the casting was either ironic or misjudged.
The chap playing the wolfish Billy Lawler was as camp as a row of tents.
The Two Hoods and their Victim struggled with US accents. They were less New York, more New Kelty. Think Broadway via Ballingry.
Three of the principal dancers looked as if they had eaten the choreographer and half the orchestra [including the instruments]. Having said that, they flung their legs about gamely although their dancing skills were almost overshadowed by the very large, unfettered bosoms careering about in their leotards.
It was all very enthusiastically delivered. The ensemble pieces were great and the performances of the two female leads were super. I might be tempted to go again. It's like savouring a huge piece of cheese without the calorific cost.
Maybe I should mention that to the dancers...
Now I haven't seen any previous productions but unfortunately this one was memorable for all the wrong reasons. Quite apart from problems with the poorly managed sound system, the casting was either ironic or misjudged.
The chap playing the wolfish Billy Lawler was as camp as a row of tents.
The Two Hoods and their Victim struggled with US accents. They were less New York, more New Kelty. Think Broadway via Ballingry.
Three of the principal dancers looked as if they had eaten the choreographer and half the orchestra [including the instruments]. Having said that, they flung their legs about gamely although their dancing skills were almost overshadowed by the very large, unfettered bosoms careering about in their leotards.
It was all very enthusiastically delivered. The ensemble pieces were great and the performances of the two female leads were super. I might be tempted to go again. It's like savouring a huge piece of cheese without the calorific cost.
Maybe I should mention that to the dancers...
Tuesday, 14 April 2009
Motivation, motivation, motivation
Since none of our student sons is currently gainfully employed, you'd be forgiven for thinking they'd be doing lots of odd jobs around the house. Not so, dear reader. "We're on holiday too" they cry, petted lips at the ready. The bedrooms are dark, junk infested hovels I dare not enter. His Nibs insists that the more we do for them, the less they'll do for themselves. He has a point but their inertia/grunge tolerance level is significantly higher than mine. If left to their own devices the house would explode. Or I will...
So the question is not, "How do we get them to change their wicked grot generating ways?" but "How do we get them to do what we want them to do with resorting to cattle prods and water cannon?".
Yesterday, I did the unthinkable - I asked them nicely. Normally this doesn't work but I had a trick up my sleeve. I fed them their favourite lunch first. I then adopted a you're-both-so-much-stronger-than-me attitude and steered them in the direction of the garden. Thereafter, they set about digging and clearing in good fashion. The bedrooms are still junk infested hovels but the garden has been revolutionised. All the donkey work has been done, leaving me free to finish off.
Result!!!
I'll do the bedrooms myself when they've gone out socialising with their equally slothish mates.
Now, how do I get them to obtain paid employment without screeching "GET A JOB!!!!"...????
So the question is not, "How do we get them to change their wicked grot generating ways?" but "How do we get them to do what we want them to do with resorting to cattle prods and water cannon?".
Yesterday, I did the unthinkable - I asked them nicely. Normally this doesn't work but I had a trick up my sleeve. I fed them their favourite lunch first. I then adopted a you're-both-so-much-stronger-than-me attitude and steered them in the direction of the garden. Thereafter, they set about digging and clearing in good fashion. The bedrooms are still junk infested hovels but the garden has been revolutionised. All the donkey work has been done, leaving me free to finish off.
Result!!!
I'll do the bedrooms myself when they've gone out socialising with their equally slothish mates.
Now, how do I get them to obtain paid employment without screeching "GET A JOB!!!!"...????
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Lances at the ready
Time for a test drive dear reader.
Our showroom saga continues
We once again had the little bowing salesman beetling back and forth getting an assortment of data and car keys while we mulled things over.
The first car we test drove [which His Nibs was initially very keen on] turned out to be a tad claustrophobic. This was ironic because we had fully intended to downsize. This car, however, turned out to be a downsize too far.
So, having gone on the shortest test drive imaginable His Nibs took us all back to the showroom to rethink the whole downsizing thing.
We had a wee wander round the lot and fell upon another [much larger]car to test drive. It had a lot more bells and whistles and, therefore,it cost more. So then we adopted joust positions. I mean, we did like little bowing man but he was a salesman and we were customers so a purchasing joust was inevitable.
We were invited into the shiny, buffed showroom for a shiny, buffed coffee while he did that one finger typing thing. Once all our details were laboriously keyed in he nipped out twice - allegedly to check details and have someone called 'Gary' to print them off for him. I think he was having a fly chat with his manager or a comfort break. He certainly didn't return with any printouts. Maybe 'Gary' had suffered some catastrophic injury whilst preparing the printouts and had to be airlifted to hospital from the car lot. Who knows.
In any event, the car had a price on it. A big price. Strike one to bowing man. We had the geriatric Ugly Bug as part exchange. The price didn't shrink much. At all. Strike two to bowing man. We countered with a series of questions on spec and reliability. Strike for the home team! Then we did the 'Here's my limit'-and-walk-away thing. That seriously wounded bowing man. He offered to find us similar within our price range. Beads of perspiration dripped from his lance. [Sounds Freudian that, sorry]
We walked away, armour and honour intact.
He rang us before we'd left the car park with another offer. We'll let him sweat a bit and joust with a few other salesmen before we claim our prize...
Our showroom saga continues
We once again had the little bowing salesman beetling back and forth getting an assortment of data and car keys while we mulled things over.
The first car we test drove [which His Nibs was initially very keen on] turned out to be a tad claustrophobic. This was ironic because we had fully intended to downsize. This car, however, turned out to be a downsize too far.
So, having gone on the shortest test drive imaginable His Nibs took us all back to the showroom to rethink the whole downsizing thing.
We had a wee wander round the lot and fell upon another [much larger]car to test drive. It had a lot more bells and whistles and, therefore,it cost more. So then we adopted joust positions. I mean, we did like little bowing man but he was a salesman and we were customers so a purchasing joust was inevitable.
We were invited into the shiny, buffed showroom for a shiny, buffed coffee while he did that one finger typing thing. Once all our details were laboriously keyed in he nipped out twice - allegedly to check details and have someone called 'Gary' to print them off for him. I think he was having a fly chat with his manager or a comfort break. He certainly didn't return with any printouts. Maybe 'Gary' had suffered some catastrophic injury whilst preparing the printouts and had to be airlifted to hospital from the car lot. Who knows.
In any event, the car had a price on it. A big price. Strike one to bowing man. We had the geriatric Ugly Bug as part exchange. The price didn't shrink much. At all. Strike two to bowing man. We countered with a series of questions on spec and reliability. Strike for the home team! Then we did the 'Here's my limit'-and-walk-away thing. That seriously wounded bowing man. He offered to find us similar within our price range. Beads of perspiration dripped from his lance. [Sounds Freudian that, sorry]
We walked away, armour and honour intact.
He rang us before we'd left the car park with another offer. We'll let him sweat a bit and joust with a few other salesmen before we claim our prize...
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Are we there yet?
For one reason and another we haven't been away on a 'proper' family holiday for a couple of years so when the boys asked for one recently it was a pleasant surprise. They'd made it clear in the past that they preferred to head off with their friends instead of their boring old parents. We suspect that since none of them is earning, the reason for this change is entirely financial but nevertheless we are excited to revisit the happy Doherty clan holidays of yore.
We've had some eventful holidays in our time:
a terrifying caravan holiday in Scotland where His Nibs shredded his arm rescuing a toddler son who decided to step off a grass sledge at 40 MPH
a 'quaint chalet holiday' in Ireland which turned out to be a shed over a septic tank. [His Nibs, out of misplaced Irish loyalty, will deny this as an exagerration]
a wonderful holiday in Canada tainted by a trip to a colonial heritage site full of unfamiliar plants which triggered a hayfever attack so pronounced I narrowly avoided a trip to A and E, leaving me slit eyed and swollen faced for two days. Fantastic.
With all these delightful memories bobbling around in my head I've been looking at brochures galore. Croatia, Crete, Italy and France... Where to go? The boys are at an age where the usual family destinations are a bit childish but they probably would tire of museums, art galleries and other cultural highlights quite quickly. Their father certainly would. Sigh.
In the meantime I'm enjoying perusing the options. We'll likely end up going somewhere completely unexpected but I'll be taking full first aid kit, antihistamine and extra cash for a speedy getaway. Just in case!
We've had some eventful holidays in our time:
a terrifying caravan holiday in Scotland where His Nibs shredded his arm rescuing a toddler son who decided to step off a grass sledge at 40 MPH
a 'quaint chalet holiday' in Ireland which turned out to be a shed over a septic tank. [His Nibs, out of misplaced Irish loyalty, will deny this as an exagerration]
a wonderful holiday in Canada tainted by a trip to a colonial heritage site full of unfamiliar plants which triggered a hayfever attack so pronounced I narrowly avoided a trip to A and E, leaving me slit eyed and swollen faced for two days. Fantastic.
With all these delightful memories bobbling around in my head I've been looking at brochures galore. Croatia, Crete, Italy and France... Where to go? The boys are at an age where the usual family destinations are a bit childish but they probably would tire of museums, art galleries and other cultural highlights quite quickly. Their father certainly would. Sigh.
In the meantime I'm enjoying perusing the options. We'll likely end up going somewhere completely unexpected but I'll be taking full first aid kit, antihistamine and extra cash for a speedy getaway. Just in case!
Tuesday, 7 April 2009
The Quest
When was the last time you bought a car? Our current car was bought four years ago and it's getting to the stage where bits are conking out, dropping off or bursting outright. The car's not in great shape either.
So, His Nibs and I went to trawl the local car sales rooms for ideas and potential replacements for our car, affectionately known as The Ugly Bug. The propect of a new car was quite exciting.
The first showroom had the obligatory cars tipped up on ramps thing going on - all shiny and buffed. It must be company policy because the sales team were equally shiny and buffed. It was all very Stepford.
We left in search of the unbuffed but hopefully sincere salesman. Is there such a breed?
The next place had only a few of its cars up on ramps and the others were dotted about the car lot, like little cherries ripe for the picking. We ambled about happily until a little, middle aged man appeared out of nowhere [as salesmen do]to ask if we needed anything. We replied we were just browsing for ideas and he withdrew backwards like a character from the King and I. I liked that. We should have more bowing on car lots. Yes, less buffing and more bowing.
Anyway, the little man disappeared and left us to it. Very wise. I hate being hassled to buy something.
Right on cue up pops another salesman. All buffed and shiny. The manager no less. [He must have escaped from the Stepford showroom] He slotted into 'Sell these dozy nitwits something. Anything.' mode right in front of me. Lots of questions oozed from his lips to form a puddle at my feet. He was the living embodiment of sales techniques. His name badge all but throbbed with intent. Yuck. I countered with 'Teacher glare' on full beam. He retreated, muttering something about stats and just in the office if you need me...
Two thirds round the lot we were set upon by a 3rd salesman who might have been the lovechild of Jack Nicholson and Santa Claus. He was freakishly jolly. Lots of wild eyes, wide smiles, and ho ho ho ing going on. When we told him we were just looking he replied 'That's allowed. Look away. No charge for that. In fact, today's so cold we should be paying YOU to look...'
Um, ok, whatever you say mate.
We all but sprinted back to the start whereupon little bowing man reappeared to offer keys, his card and a test drive at our convenience. His colleagues hovered on the horizon like vampire bats.
Things are clearly very slow in the car industry. Loads of car sales locally. We might yet bag a real bargain, if our nerves aren't shot to hell in the process.
So, His Nibs and I went to trawl the local car sales rooms for ideas and potential replacements for our car, affectionately known as The Ugly Bug. The propect of a new car was quite exciting.
The first showroom had the obligatory cars tipped up on ramps thing going on - all shiny and buffed. It must be company policy because the sales team were equally shiny and buffed. It was all very Stepford.
We left in search of the unbuffed but hopefully sincere salesman. Is there such a breed?
The next place had only a few of its cars up on ramps and the others were dotted about the car lot, like little cherries ripe for the picking. We ambled about happily until a little, middle aged man appeared out of nowhere [as salesmen do]to ask if we needed anything. We replied we were just browsing for ideas and he withdrew backwards like a character from the King and I. I liked that. We should have more bowing on car lots. Yes, less buffing and more bowing.
Anyway, the little man disappeared and left us to it. Very wise. I hate being hassled to buy something.
Right on cue up pops another salesman. All buffed and shiny. The manager no less. [He must have escaped from the Stepford showroom] He slotted into 'Sell these dozy nitwits something. Anything.' mode right in front of me. Lots of questions oozed from his lips to form a puddle at my feet. He was the living embodiment of sales techniques. His name badge all but throbbed with intent. Yuck. I countered with 'Teacher glare' on full beam. He retreated, muttering something about stats and just in the office if you need me...
Two thirds round the lot we were set upon by a 3rd salesman who might have been the lovechild of Jack Nicholson and Santa Claus. He was freakishly jolly. Lots of wild eyes, wide smiles, and ho ho ho ing going on. When we told him we were just looking he replied 'That's allowed. Look away. No charge for that. In fact, today's so cold we should be paying YOU to look...'
Um, ok, whatever you say mate.
We all but sprinted back to the start whereupon little bowing man reappeared to offer keys, his card and a test drive at our convenience. His colleagues hovered on the horizon like vampire bats.
Things are clearly very slow in the car industry. Loads of car sales locally. We might yet bag a real bargain, if our nerves aren't shot to hell in the process.
Sunday, 5 April 2009
Re: cycling
Today the spring sunshine and the prospect of two week's holiday prompted me to get astride a bike. No big deal I hear you say but for me, it was a major feat. It's been more than two decades since my bottom graced [!?] a saddle so the bike and I took a minute or two to get acquainted. This was a freecycle bike and it was clearly used to a more experienced rider.
This saddle was meant for smaller, tighter butts. A real cyclist's butt. It decided to teach me a lesson. The bike speared me like a harpoon does a whale. It's hard to cycle whilst being impaled.
It's fair to say that my memories of cycling were somewhat rose tinted.
In days gone by I was photographed elegantly pedalling along the coast; hair flowing like a L'Oreal commercial, cool cheeked and bright eyed. A vision of composure and grace.
Today anyone daring to photograph my scarlet face, helmet hair and heaving chest would have met a sticky end. Actually perhaps not. I wasn't fit to speak, far less assault any passing papparazzi. I must have looked like an anti smoking campaign.
At one point I walked my bike up a steep hill [well, steep for me]and met with a withering look from a child on a trike. And no, I'm not making any of this up. Stoically, I adjusted my helmet and continued walking despite the urge to give up and phone for rescue by His Nibs in the batmobile.
Happily, I eventually found a flat stretch so I got on again. This time the bike decided to introduce me to the mysteries of gear changing. My previous bike, a three ton tank - sorry... a Raleigh shopper with bags and baskets galore, had 3 gears. I repeat - 3 gears.
Plenty.
I mean, why on earth have 18 gears??? It's not right. Not for me anyway. I had a choice:- direction or gear changing. I couldn't quite master both. Not today. I almost fell in hedges twice. My legs were spinning so wildly my jeans nearly caught in the chain. Not a good look for anyone. Passing drivers were slowing down to ogle and smirk. I think they were friends of the bike.
By the end of this forty minute ride I needed tea and Victoria sponge to recover. It was a cake emergency.
Honest.
The bike was left to snigger in the hut till the next sortie.
This saddle was meant for smaller, tighter butts. A real cyclist's butt. It decided to teach me a lesson. The bike speared me like a harpoon does a whale. It's hard to cycle whilst being impaled.
It's fair to say that my memories of cycling were somewhat rose tinted.
In days gone by I was photographed elegantly pedalling along the coast; hair flowing like a L'Oreal commercial, cool cheeked and bright eyed. A vision of composure and grace.
Today anyone daring to photograph my scarlet face, helmet hair and heaving chest would have met a sticky end. Actually perhaps not. I wasn't fit to speak, far less assault any passing papparazzi. I must have looked like an anti smoking campaign.
At one point I walked my bike up a steep hill [well, steep for me]and met with a withering look from a child on a trike. And no, I'm not making any of this up. Stoically, I adjusted my helmet and continued walking despite the urge to give up and phone for rescue by His Nibs in the batmobile.
Happily, I eventually found a flat stretch so I got on again. This time the bike decided to introduce me to the mysteries of gear changing. My previous bike, a three ton tank - sorry... a Raleigh shopper with bags and baskets galore, had 3 gears. I repeat - 3 gears.
Plenty.
I mean, why on earth have 18 gears??? It's not right. Not for me anyway. I had a choice:- direction or gear changing. I couldn't quite master both. Not today. I almost fell in hedges twice. My legs were spinning so wildly my jeans nearly caught in the chain. Not a good look for anyone. Passing drivers were slowing down to ogle and smirk. I think they were friends of the bike.
By the end of this forty minute ride I needed tea and Victoria sponge to recover. It was a cake emergency.
Honest.
The bike was left to snigger in the hut till the next sortie.
Tuesday, 17 March 2009
Heavy duty
Today and yesterday was spent attending child protection training. Day 1 involved policy, procedure and legislation. Day 2 involved assessing a disturbing case study. It didn't feature really horrific material but depressing nonetheless.
What was good was the opportunity to meet with professionals from other agencies; health, police, housing, social work and the voluntary sector. We all shared a common concern for the care and welfare of children but our approaches and systems were often different. It was really helpful to share experiences. The most useful information I learned came from the informal discussion sessions.
Most of us were really tired by the end of each day.
Thankfully there were moments of levity in the training. The trainer duo were approachable but a little disorganised. The female presenter knew her stuff but suffered from bossy ex teacher syndrome. She had a tendency to overtalk when we had got the gist of the task long ago. I was somewhat distracted by her attire. On both days she wore little tops which didn't quite cover her midriff. I couldn't decide if this was a deliberate 'I'm proud of my stretch marks' statement or simply a wardrobe malfunction. She kept tugging at the hems but both tops were adamant that they weren't heading south. Oh no, they were avoiding the grey stripey flesh and heading north to consort with her earrings [which seemed, by contrast, to be hellbent on seeing the stretchmarks for themselves]
The male trainer was a former police officer and had a Dixon of Dock Green warmth about him that was very appealing. He seemed immune to the anti gravity hem situation but I suppose in his line of work he's had to deal with far worse. He did however indicate in his non verbal communication [SEE... I WAS paying attention to the course content!]that his partner's 'death by explanation' delivery might be a tad irksome. Generally though they were effective in their roles.
It did make me wonder, in all the training I've delivered, what my audience were making of my input. I have wads of positive evaluations but I bet there were times somebody was focused on something other than the course materials.
I'm SO glad we haven't yet developed the ability to read minds.
What was good was the opportunity to meet with professionals from other agencies; health, police, housing, social work and the voluntary sector. We all shared a common concern for the care and welfare of children but our approaches and systems were often different. It was really helpful to share experiences. The most useful information I learned came from the informal discussion sessions.
Most of us were really tired by the end of each day.
Thankfully there were moments of levity in the training. The trainer duo were approachable but a little disorganised. The female presenter knew her stuff but suffered from bossy ex teacher syndrome. She had a tendency to overtalk when we had got the gist of the task long ago. I was somewhat distracted by her attire. On both days she wore little tops which didn't quite cover her midriff. I couldn't decide if this was a deliberate 'I'm proud of my stretch marks' statement or simply a wardrobe malfunction. She kept tugging at the hems but both tops were adamant that they weren't heading south. Oh no, they were avoiding the grey stripey flesh and heading north to consort with her earrings [which seemed, by contrast, to be hellbent on seeing the stretchmarks for themselves]
The male trainer was a former police officer and had a Dixon of Dock Green warmth about him that was very appealing. He seemed immune to the anti gravity hem situation but I suppose in his line of work he's had to deal with far worse. He did however indicate in his non verbal communication [SEE... I WAS paying attention to the course content!]that his partner's 'death by explanation' delivery might be a tad irksome. Generally though they were effective in their roles.
It did make me wonder, in all the training I've delivered, what my audience were making of my input. I have wads of positive evaluations but I bet there were times somebody was focused on something other than the course materials.
I'm SO glad we haven't yet developed the ability to read minds.
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Three cheers for The Weekend!
This has been an incredibly busy week with multiple appointments clashing like gladiators. I've emerged weary but triumphant, with the bloodied remains of the diary limp at my feet.
Yesterday I went to the hairdressers to glam up for an interview.
Hairdressing salons are fascinating places. Nowhere else will you find women voluntarily and publicly revealing themselves in all their dishevelled glory. Hair will be left bedraggled or fixed to the head by means known only to stylists and Spanish Inquisitors.
Intelligent women will allow complete strangers to interfere with the most visible element of the body. Failure to deliver a good style can leave the most confident woman distraught and housebound for a couple of months. Either that or forced to wear burka type headscarves or bandanas until regrowth has occured.
Most women will, at some point in their lives, suffer a hair trauma. Mine was the Frizzy Perm from Hell but it is closely followed by the Half Inch Hairline Fringe.
Luckily, on this occasion my hairdo was successful and painfree [unless you count the price which sends His Nibs into a frenzy of wallet clutching terror]. I went to my interview coiffed, perfumed and with enough lacquer to immobilize a truck. This turned out to be fortuitous because once at the interview the entire building had to be evacuated when the fire alarm went off. Whilst everyone else was Worzel Gummidgey I was a vision of hair perfection. His Nibs calls this degree of spray hold: Helmet Head. Small rocks could bounce off it and I would feel nothing.
Anyway, once past the excitement of 15 mins assembly in the carpark we trooped back in and I was ushered into a little ante room to read my presentation question. I then had 20 mins to prepare my response using flipcharts, pens, acetates etc but no laptop or the likes. My pens dried up and so did my brain [for a bit] but once I got past the "OMG what'll I write???" moment I got on with things.
Entering the interview room was like entering Dragon's den. Six people sat at the far end of the room while I stood at the other trying to persuade them I was best for the job. Air Con clearly had not yet been invented. Nor was opening a window an option so we all quietly steamed together until the interview was done.
Friday the 13th - unlucky for some.
Yesterday I went to the hairdressers to glam up for an interview.
Hairdressing salons are fascinating places. Nowhere else will you find women voluntarily and publicly revealing themselves in all their dishevelled glory. Hair will be left bedraggled or fixed to the head by means known only to stylists and Spanish Inquisitors.
Intelligent women will allow complete strangers to interfere with the most visible element of the body. Failure to deliver a good style can leave the most confident woman distraught and housebound for a couple of months. Either that or forced to wear burka type headscarves or bandanas until regrowth has occured.
Most women will, at some point in their lives, suffer a hair trauma. Mine was the Frizzy Perm from Hell but it is closely followed by the Half Inch Hairline Fringe.
Luckily, on this occasion my hairdo was successful and painfree [unless you count the price which sends His Nibs into a frenzy of wallet clutching terror]. I went to my interview coiffed, perfumed and with enough lacquer to immobilize a truck. This turned out to be fortuitous because once at the interview the entire building had to be evacuated when the fire alarm went off. Whilst everyone else was Worzel Gummidgey I was a vision of hair perfection. His Nibs calls this degree of spray hold: Helmet Head. Small rocks could bounce off it and I would feel nothing.
Anyway, once past the excitement of 15 mins assembly in the carpark we trooped back in and I was ushered into a little ante room to read my presentation question. I then had 20 mins to prepare my response using flipcharts, pens, acetates etc but no laptop or the likes. My pens dried up and so did my brain [for a bit] but once I got past the "OMG what'll I write???" moment I got on with things.
Entering the interview room was like entering Dragon's den. Six people sat at the far end of the room while I stood at the other trying to persuade them I was best for the job. Air Con clearly had not yet been invented. Nor was opening a window an option so we all quietly steamed together until the interview was done.
Friday the 13th - unlucky for some.
Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Who are we - really?
Yesterday I rose with the larks and enjoyed a scenic rail trip to attend a leadership course. It was all very interesting, for all sorts of reasons. I met a really nice bunch of people keen to explore their leadership potential.
Prior to the course all participants were asked to complete an online evaluator to provide some pyschometric assessment. I apparently am the type who puts the PSYCHO in psychometric testing. According to the documentation my areas for development leave me one step away from Hitler. The scary thing is that much of the analysis I found spookily accurate.
So, do I embrace these flaws/failings/areas for development and aim to rectify them or toss the results in the bin with nary a backward glance? Ooh, the dilemma!
Giving the session the benefit of the doubt I explored my 'fiery red' dominance.
I found myself sitting between a 'sunshine yellow' and an 'earth green'. In essence, my type is a bit of an egomaniac who likes to show off [ I suspect my Witters support this claim], the sunshine yellows are airy fairy types who like to party, the earth greens spend all day hugging people and the cool blues are detail obsessed geeks. Well, this isn't EXACTLY how the trainer described our types but my type like to be right so just accept what I say. OKAY????
The day somewhat deteriorated into each group of like labelled individuals opting to exaggerate their perceived stereotype so that ultimately we were all laughing at the obligatory group generated Post It identity statements.
Secretly though I suspect we all loved the good parts but feared the bad parts might actually have more than a grain of truth to them. While we were all publicly flicking halfheartedly through the analysis we may have been privately devouring the results like locusts.
Or again, that might have been just me.
Prior to the course all participants were asked to complete an online evaluator to provide some pyschometric assessment. I apparently am the type who puts the PSYCHO in psychometric testing. According to the documentation my areas for development leave me one step away from Hitler. The scary thing is that much of the analysis I found spookily accurate.
So, do I embrace these flaws/failings/areas for development and aim to rectify them or toss the results in the bin with nary a backward glance? Ooh, the dilemma!
Giving the session the benefit of the doubt I explored my 'fiery red' dominance.
I found myself sitting between a 'sunshine yellow' and an 'earth green'. In essence, my type is a bit of an egomaniac who likes to show off [ I suspect my Witters support this claim], the sunshine yellows are airy fairy types who like to party, the earth greens spend all day hugging people and the cool blues are detail obsessed geeks. Well, this isn't EXACTLY how the trainer described our types but my type like to be right so just accept what I say. OKAY????
The day somewhat deteriorated into each group of like labelled individuals opting to exaggerate their perceived stereotype so that ultimately we were all laughing at the obligatory group generated Post It identity statements.
Secretly though I suspect we all loved the good parts but feared the bad parts might actually have more than a grain of truth to them. While we were all publicly flicking halfheartedly through the analysis we may have been privately devouring the results like locusts.
Or again, that might have been just me.
Sunday, 8 March 2009
A walk in the park
Today His Nibs and I went for a walk in the Spring sunshine[it is officially Spring now, isn't it??]. It was lovely, really lovely. The sea was quite choppy and the day was bright and clear.
Other people were taking advantage of the sun too. Most of them had a dog with them. Mostly big dogs today. One man shared his face with his dog. I'd heard that about dog owners but had never believed it until now.
We should get a dog but not until we've retired. I like middle sized dogs. Big ones eat a lot and tend to drool like Niagara. Little dogs yap and look stupid.[Or is that just their owners?]Middle sized dogs tend to be average in all respects - consumption, intelligence, temperament and poop output.[Our future dog will officially belong to His Nibs so he will be dealing with that side of things. I'll handle the patting and ear stroking]
But I digress...back to our walk.
We coped well with the inclines although halfway up one slope I had to test out a couthy A frame oak seat. It looked a bit like an artist's easel. His Nibs thought this was quite cute mainly because this seat, as with most I've encountered, is designed for those over 5 feet tall. Apparently all I needed was a little fishing rod and a pond.
Once on our way again we spotted a couple of little robins boldly battling the gales. I'm fairly sure they weren't meaning to fly sideways but you never know with robins. They are the Hells Angels of the bird world. Given half a chance they'd be on motorbikes picking fights with hawks.
We also spotted two of the fattest pigeons this side of a roasting tin. One had given up flight and was sauntering through the woodland like Christopher Biggins waiting for a photo shoot. The other was hauling its belly across a field pretending it was as slim as the crows in their LBDs. We watched, taking bets on whether it actually had any legs. I still say it was being pulled along by some unseen magnet under the soil.
We should go walking more often.
Other people were taking advantage of the sun too. Most of them had a dog with them. Mostly big dogs today. One man shared his face with his dog. I'd heard that about dog owners but had never believed it until now.
We should get a dog but not until we've retired. I like middle sized dogs. Big ones eat a lot and tend to drool like Niagara. Little dogs yap and look stupid.[Or is that just their owners?]Middle sized dogs tend to be average in all respects - consumption, intelligence, temperament and poop output.[Our future dog will officially belong to His Nibs so he will be dealing with that side of things. I'll handle the patting and ear stroking]
But I digress...back to our walk.
We coped well with the inclines although halfway up one slope I had to test out a couthy A frame oak seat. It looked a bit like an artist's easel. His Nibs thought this was quite cute mainly because this seat, as with most I've encountered, is designed for those over 5 feet tall. Apparently all I needed was a little fishing rod and a pond.
Once on our way again we spotted a couple of little robins boldly battling the gales. I'm fairly sure they weren't meaning to fly sideways but you never know with robins. They are the Hells Angels of the bird world. Given half a chance they'd be on motorbikes picking fights with hawks.
We also spotted two of the fattest pigeons this side of a roasting tin. One had given up flight and was sauntering through the woodland like Christopher Biggins waiting for a photo shoot. The other was hauling its belly across a field pretending it was as slim as the crows in their LBDs. We watched, taking bets on whether it actually had any legs. I still say it was being pulled along by some unseen magnet under the soil.
We should go walking more often.
Saturday, 7 March 2009
Collected works
As you may know I like words. A lot. I like poetry, in particular, a lot. So it was with a mix of delight and trepidation that I agreed to help judge entries to a local poetry competition. Turns out there were lots of entries. Hundreds of them.
At first I was full of enthusiasm but by the fifth reading I was going wordblind. Or rather I was wishing I was...
Some phrases will stay with me for some time.
Gems such as:
'crawled to the door like an injured maraca'
and
'the mud and vomit they call stew, really makes me want to spew'
Whittling the entries down to a shortlist would have been a pleasant task were it not for a series of unexpected and unavoidable demands on my time and energies in the shape of interviews and electrocution [see previous witter]. Given that I need in excess of 10 hours sleep per day, these demands left me the wrong side of wabbit.
Competition assessing has been an experience which I will, in all likelihood, repeat - but not for a while. A year at least. That or whenever my eyes stop bleeding.
Note to self: Bin the diary next Feb
At first I was full of enthusiasm but by the fifth reading I was going wordblind. Or rather I was wishing I was...
Some phrases will stay with me for some time.
Gems such as:
'crawled to the door like an injured maraca'
and
'the mud and vomit they call stew, really makes me want to spew'
Whittling the entries down to a shortlist would have been a pleasant task were it not for a series of unexpected and unavoidable demands on my time and energies in the shape of interviews and electrocution [see previous witter]. Given that I need in excess of 10 hours sleep per day, these demands left me the wrong side of wabbit.
Competition assessing has been an experience which I will, in all likelihood, repeat - but not for a while. A year at least. That or whenever my eyes stop bleeding.
Note to self: Bin the diary next Feb
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
Mince
Well, it's been an eventful few days Chez Nous.
In the space of a week or so His Nibs has managed to electrocute himself, I've attended interviews for two different jobs, delivered presentations at night time church meetings, planned a Fairtrade carnival [don't ask!!]and gone to collect half a hundredweight of poetry. All this whilst holding down the day job and maintaining some semblance of family life.
Speaking of family life, I forgot to mention the progress of The Mad Mother. The Saga of The Insurance Claim From Hell is nearing an end. Finally. Pacifying the mater has been no easy feat in the midst of the incidents mentioned earlier...
My brother who was housing The Mad Mother during the repairs has marked her departure with bunting, some alcohol and liberal sprinklings of 'Yee Haaa!!'. He aims to celebrate his new found flatmate-free status by bedding the first non geriatric female who happens his way. Why he felt the need to share this plan is unclear. I'm concentrating on not having that mental image in my head for any length of time. [Puppies and kittens... Think puppies and kittens...]
So all in all... my head, as they say hereabouts, is mince. Hence, this, the briefest of Witters.
In the space of a week or so His Nibs has managed to electrocute himself, I've attended interviews for two different jobs, delivered presentations at night time church meetings, planned a Fairtrade carnival [don't ask!!]and gone to collect half a hundredweight of poetry. All this whilst holding down the day job and maintaining some semblance of family life.
Speaking of family life, I forgot to mention the progress of The Mad Mother. The Saga of The Insurance Claim From Hell is nearing an end. Finally. Pacifying the mater has been no easy feat in the midst of the incidents mentioned earlier...
My brother who was housing The Mad Mother during the repairs has marked her departure with bunting, some alcohol and liberal sprinklings of 'Yee Haaa!!'. He aims to celebrate his new found flatmate-free status by bedding the first non geriatric female who happens his way. Why he felt the need to share this plan is unclear. I'm concentrating on not having that mental image in my head for any length of time. [Puppies and kittens... Think puppies and kittens...]
So all in all... my head, as they say hereabouts, is mince. Hence, this, the briefest of Witters.
Saturday, 28 February 2009
The Bump's Night Out
Last night I rejected the usual Friday slouch on the couch to bedeck myself with a bit of glitz and glam for The Bump's Night Out aka a colleague's maternity leave.
Imagine the scene, 9 party-hard-or-die females, 2 I'm-too-old-for-this-but-hey females and 1 obliged-to-go-but-would-rather-be-having-my-eyeballs-pierced male boss. [I'll leave you to work out which category I fall into...]
It all began rather sedately with the main attraction herself waiting for us in the bar. A few stiffies later [calm yourself, it's a drink but somewhat apt] we all moved on to the dining room, suitably chirpy, chatty and smiley. Maybe we should have stopped there and called it a night...
A pleasant young waiter came to take our orders but 11 females make a lot of noise when in party mode and under the influence of alcohol so he had a bit of a job on his hands. He had three goes at checking the orders but kept his smile stapled on like a trouper. Meanwhile, other diners in the very busy dining room were turning their heads to identify the source and nature of the endless shrieks and laughter. Anyone there for an intimate soiree was on a hiding to nothing.
The very sober Bumpee spent most of the evening trying to moderate her hysterical table companions but to no avail. I can't even tell you what generated the hilarity on one side of the table as I couldn't hear the conversations but it must have been lewd judging by the table slapping and eye popping reactions.
What I can tell you is that the climax of the evening [if that's the right phrase] was the arrival of the boss's dessert. He'd chosen strawberry fool. The waiter returned with a little plate the size of a saucer on which was placed half a strawberry, some mint leaves and a drizzle of strawberry coulis. The boss's face was a picture. There was mass hysterics [except of course from the boss]. It was the funniest thing I have seen in ages. It was so small and pathetic. It was the pauper of puddings. The table was awash with 'fool' witticisms.
The boss could barely contain his temper while the waiter with the stapled on smile took the sad half strawberry away and came back with a meringue nest crumbled into a wine glass as consolation. The boss ate it through gritted teeth [no mean feat], left his portion of the bill and escaped Stalag Gynae und Grub at top speed.
I can't divulge what happened afterwards at Bumpee's house but let's just say the follow up photos on Facebook are extortion worthy.
Imagine the scene, 9 party-hard-or-die females, 2 I'm-too-old-for-this-but-hey females and 1 obliged-to-go-but-would-rather-be-having-my-eyeballs-pierced male boss. [I'll leave you to work out which category I fall into...]
It all began rather sedately with the main attraction herself waiting for us in the bar. A few stiffies later [calm yourself, it's a drink but somewhat apt] we all moved on to the dining room, suitably chirpy, chatty and smiley. Maybe we should have stopped there and called it a night...
A pleasant young waiter came to take our orders but 11 females make a lot of noise when in party mode and under the influence of alcohol so he had a bit of a job on his hands. He had three goes at checking the orders but kept his smile stapled on like a trouper. Meanwhile, other diners in the very busy dining room were turning their heads to identify the source and nature of the endless shrieks and laughter. Anyone there for an intimate soiree was on a hiding to nothing.
The very sober Bumpee spent most of the evening trying to moderate her hysterical table companions but to no avail. I can't even tell you what generated the hilarity on one side of the table as I couldn't hear the conversations but it must have been lewd judging by the table slapping and eye popping reactions.
What I can tell you is that the climax of the evening [if that's the right phrase] was the arrival of the boss's dessert. He'd chosen strawberry fool. The waiter returned with a little plate the size of a saucer on which was placed half a strawberry, some mint leaves and a drizzle of strawberry coulis. The boss's face was a picture. There was mass hysterics [except of course from the boss]. It was the funniest thing I have seen in ages. It was so small and pathetic. It was the pauper of puddings. The table was awash with 'fool' witticisms.
The boss could barely contain his temper while the waiter with the stapled on smile took the sad half strawberry away and came back with a meringue nest crumbled into a wine glass as consolation. The boss ate it through gritted teeth [no mean feat], left his portion of the bill and escaped Stalag Gynae und Grub at top speed.
I can't divulge what happened afterwards at Bumpee's house but let's just say the follow up photos on Facebook are extortion worthy.
Thursday, 19 February 2009
Coupledom #1
Today's Witter looks at the mysteries and wonders of Coupledom.
By this, I mean that special connectedness which occurs when two people have been together for a significant length of time. There is no standardised moment when this change kicks in - it depends on the couple. The depth and nature of the connectedness varies too.
Today, my good friend Normski told me about an interesting evening spent with her husband [we'll call him James T- he's a proud Trekkie]. After a tiring day in the workaday world, she was lounging and musing in front of the tv. She told him that she felt the need for a holiday in the sun, somewhere exotic, with a hammock and coconuts...[You get the picture]
"Thinking of coconuts..." cried James T, leaping from his much loved recliner, " I have something for you!" He shot across the livingroom, pulled open a drawer and promptly pulled out - a coconut.
Normski described the moment as quite surreal. James T, on the other hand, was delighted. He beamed at her with obvious pride while she was slack jawed with astonishment.
Once she recovered something of her composure she asked him why he had a coconut and why he'd kept it in the drawer in the livingroom.
"It's our magical connection. Your thinking...my thinking..." he murmured, returning to his recliner as if he'd conquered a Klingon battle fleet.
"No, seriously. Why did you have a coconut in a livingroom drawer?" insisted Normski.
"Aaaaaaaah," he replied, adopting a I'm - an -intergalactic - man - of -mystery - me expression. Normski was baffled. He offered no further explanation and savoured his self satisfaction like a gourmet savours a truffle.
"Could it be he's planning a romantic getaway," I suggested, " and this is the first of a series of clues...?" Normski didn't think so. She said the coconut was bald and a bit scabby looking. It didn't trigger romantic notions. Not for her anyway.
He thinks he has amazed her with his spontaneity. She thinks he is one phaser short of an arsenal.
By this, I mean that special connectedness which occurs when two people have been together for a significant length of time. There is no standardised moment when this change kicks in - it depends on the couple. The depth and nature of the connectedness varies too.
Today, my good friend Normski told me about an interesting evening spent with her husband [we'll call him James T- he's a proud Trekkie]. After a tiring day in the workaday world, she was lounging and musing in front of the tv. She told him that she felt the need for a holiday in the sun, somewhere exotic, with a hammock and coconuts...[You get the picture]
"Thinking of coconuts..." cried James T, leaping from his much loved recliner, " I have something for you!" He shot across the livingroom, pulled open a drawer and promptly pulled out - a coconut.
Normski described the moment as quite surreal. James T, on the other hand, was delighted. He beamed at her with obvious pride while she was slack jawed with astonishment.
Once she recovered something of her composure she asked him why he had a coconut and why he'd kept it in the drawer in the livingroom.
"It's our magical connection. Your thinking...my thinking..." he murmured, returning to his recliner as if he'd conquered a Klingon battle fleet.
"No, seriously. Why did you have a coconut in a livingroom drawer?" insisted Normski.
"Aaaaaaaah," he replied, adopting a I'm - an -intergalactic - man - of -mystery - me expression. Normski was baffled. He offered no further explanation and savoured his self satisfaction like a gourmet savours a truffle.
"Could it be he's planning a romantic getaway," I suggested, " and this is the first of a series of clues...?" Normski didn't think so. She said the coconut was bald and a bit scabby looking. It didn't trigger romantic notions. Not for her anyway.
He thinks he has amazed her with his spontaneity. She thinks he is one phaser short of an arsenal.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
Wordsmith?
In this time of global, instant, communication systems it is natural to assume that clarity of message wil be easy. Not so. There is something about the immediacy of IM and texting which may inadvertently or subtly alter a meaning. [You may have found otherwise but this is my witter so I can generalise wildly safe in the knowledge that a, by now you'll be used to my ramblings or b, you'll be too busy with a Real Life to oppose]
Often, in forum based sites especially, a reader may misinterpret a post and feel so aggrieved that an online argument ensues or the reader types in a huffy post and 'flounces off' in outrage. I wrote a TOME of a witter on this but subsequently deleted it to save your grey matter from self combusting. Believe me, I did you a favour.
Anyhoo...I prefer face to face communication. Letters, texts, posts etc are all subject to the reader's interpretation and, while this is also true of speech, it's easier and quicker to rectify misconceptions during a spoken conversation.
This of course, presupposes that one is articulate and a good listener. I am neither. I try to be both, I really do. In terms of listening I definitely have a saturation point at which I drift off or interrupt depending on the context. As regards the former, something between my brain and my tongue isn't working as well as it might. { No kidding says you]
Here's an example - I've asked children to pass me a teapot when I believed I was asking them to pass me a textbook. I repeated the instruction two or three times and the poor souls looked at me in bewilderment before the bravest spoke up to tell me there was no teapot on the table. Yikes! Stroke city here I come...
Another was the time I spoke confidently and earnestly about someone developing as an inffydidual. Inffydidual??? Yep, you read that right, I didn't misspell it. In my job good communication is EVERYTHING and, judging by these examples, I can't help wondering if the writing is on the wall.
Often, in forum based sites especially, a reader may misinterpret a post and feel so aggrieved that an online argument ensues or the reader types in a huffy post and 'flounces off' in outrage. I wrote a TOME of a witter on this but subsequently deleted it to save your grey matter from self combusting. Believe me, I did you a favour.
Anyhoo...I prefer face to face communication. Letters, texts, posts etc are all subject to the reader's interpretation and, while this is also true of speech, it's easier and quicker to rectify misconceptions during a spoken conversation.
This of course, presupposes that one is articulate and a good listener. I am neither. I try to be both, I really do. In terms of listening I definitely have a saturation point at which I drift off or interrupt depending on the context. As regards the former, something between my brain and my tongue isn't working as well as it might. { No kidding says you]
Here's an example - I've asked children to pass me a teapot when I believed I was asking them to pass me a textbook. I repeated the instruction two or three times and the poor souls looked at me in bewilderment before the bravest spoke up to tell me there was no teapot on the table. Yikes! Stroke city here I come...
Another was the time I spoke confidently and earnestly about someone developing as an inffydidual. Inffydidual??? Yep, you read that right, I didn't misspell it. In my job good communication is EVERYTHING and, judging by these examples, I can't help wondering if the writing is on the wall.
Thursday, 5 February 2009
Obseletely out of the question
Greetings dear reader.
Question: What do a boot jack, a goffering iron and a leather strop have in common?
Answer: They are all items rarely if ever used today which were once commonplace.
This witter is about that which is old, defunct and well past its sell by date. No not me. Well, possibly but I'm talking about items which are obsolete. I had a box load of museum artefacts today. I encouraged the Littluns to investigate to determine age, usage and owner. It was all great fun. We'd been finding out about inventors and inventions so these were considered cool.
Some of the suggested uses were quite imaginative and creative. Little Dynamo thought that the club used to wash and beat clothes was a baseball bat for a fat man. His amigos thought the barber's leather strop was either used to beat unruly children [hmmmm] or as a sash worn diagonally over armour.
They were particularly interested in the glove stretchers which, according to them, could have been been hair combs for Chinese women or curling tongs for rich people. Why Chinese people couldn't be rich or want curling tongs was never quite explained to me.
Their favourite gadget though was a clockwork meat hook which was once hung over a range so that the meat would slowly turn and cook evenly. No-one guessed it although one girl did spot the clockwork mechanism through a small hole. Suggested uses for that ranged from church bell to a weighing machine.
There was a frenzy of excitement over the vicious looking lino cutter which most assumed was for cutting up meat or alternatively, as one person thought, chipping diamonds from rock.
Interestingly, only four out of the nine investigation teams worked out that the lobster measure was a lobster measure despite it being engraved on the metal itself in inch high letters. Time to hone their observational skills perhaps.
It's a pity that I can't show you some images from the day - expressions were priceless. Finally, let me end this witter by warning you that small children may suggest eye watering uses for a goffering iron. Google it - you know you want to.
Question: What do a boot jack, a goffering iron and a leather strop have in common?
Answer: They are all items rarely if ever used today which were once commonplace.
This witter is about that which is old, defunct and well past its sell by date. No not me. Well, possibly but I'm talking about items which are obsolete. I had a box load of museum artefacts today. I encouraged the Littluns to investigate to determine age, usage and owner. It was all great fun. We'd been finding out about inventors and inventions so these were considered cool.
Some of the suggested uses were quite imaginative and creative. Little Dynamo thought that the club used to wash and beat clothes was a baseball bat for a fat man. His amigos thought the barber's leather strop was either used to beat unruly children [hmmmm] or as a sash worn diagonally over armour.
They were particularly interested in the glove stretchers which, according to them, could have been been hair combs for Chinese women or curling tongs for rich people. Why Chinese people couldn't be rich or want curling tongs was never quite explained to me.
Their favourite gadget though was a clockwork meat hook which was once hung over a range so that the meat would slowly turn and cook evenly. No-one guessed it although one girl did spot the clockwork mechanism through a small hole. Suggested uses for that ranged from church bell to a weighing machine.
There was a frenzy of excitement over the vicious looking lino cutter which most assumed was for cutting up meat or alternatively, as one person thought, chipping diamonds from rock.
Interestingly, only four out of the nine investigation teams worked out that the lobster measure was a lobster measure despite it being engraved on the metal itself in inch high letters. Time to hone their observational skills perhaps.
It's a pity that I can't show you some images from the day - expressions were priceless. Finally, let me end this witter by warning you that small children may suggest eye watering uses for a goffering iron. Google it - you know you want to.
Monday, 2 February 2009
SNOW!
It's been thirteen years apparently since Britain had a blast of snow as heavy as the one which hit the UK today. Weather forecasters and news presenters alike were chucking all sorts of superlatives around for dramatic effect. Deepest, coldest, harshest, most dangerous, yadda yadda yadda.
One doe eyed presenter on the Beeb was the picture of angst as she warned her patently idiotic viewers to "...wrap up warmly and take care out there. It's very snowy." God forbid we should venture outdoors without the cast iron wisdom of some twinset clad bimbette who's never travelled further north than Watford. I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt as she is heavily pregnant and may be suffering from baby brain. As for the weather woman who thinks she's a nursery teacher... aarrggghhhh!!!!
Yes it's snowing, yes it's cold. Snow has to be cold. [It's in the contract - Snow tried to be bikini weather but God said no deal, you get the thermals and bobble hats.]
But let's not lose the plot here people. A bit common sense is all we need. Anyone who genuinely does need to take advice from the BBC sofa squad shouldn't really be out on their own anyway. I may not be a rocket scientist but I can get about reasonably independently and if I don't get to where I want to be, well that'll be MY fault and I'll live with the consequences. Or not.
I was a bit frustrated today when I saw palm sized flakes blowing horizontally past the window. The 4 year old in me wanted to rush out and chuck huge snowballs at innocent parties but the 44 year old me had to be sensible and stay indoors to earn the daily crust. I had the right gear for outdoors [so no need for the sofa squad to fret for me] but like Snow my contract prohibits any and all fun stuff. I can't blame God for that though, just the council.
One doe eyed presenter on the Beeb was the picture of angst as she warned her patently idiotic viewers to "...wrap up warmly and take care out there. It's very snowy." God forbid we should venture outdoors without the cast iron wisdom of some twinset clad bimbette who's never travelled further north than Watford. I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt as she is heavily pregnant and may be suffering from baby brain. As for the weather woman who thinks she's a nursery teacher... aarrggghhhh!!!!
Yes it's snowing, yes it's cold. Snow has to be cold. [It's in the contract - Snow tried to be bikini weather but God said no deal, you get the thermals and bobble hats.]
But let's not lose the plot here people. A bit common sense is all we need. Anyone who genuinely does need to take advice from the BBC sofa squad shouldn't really be out on their own anyway. I may not be a rocket scientist but I can get about reasonably independently and if I don't get to where I want to be, well that'll be MY fault and I'll live with the consequences. Or not.
I was a bit frustrated today when I saw palm sized flakes blowing horizontally past the window. The 4 year old in me wanted to rush out and chuck huge snowballs at innocent parties but the 44 year old me had to be sensible and stay indoors to earn the daily crust. I had the right gear for outdoors [so no need for the sofa squad to fret for me] but like Snow my contract prohibits any and all fun stuff. I can't blame God for that though, just the council.
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Patent first, profit later.
It's amazing the things you discover when you chat to people.
Today I learned that the most financially successful invention to date is the ring pull. Well, well...
I was chatting to a man [We'll call him Fred]whose job it is to protect the ideas and inventions of Scotland's innovators. He is approached by an average of six people a week convinced that their idea is the Next Big Thing.
Fred told me that only around 10 % of ideas ever come to anything but his job is very interesting. The youngest successful inventor he has dealt with was 12 years old and the oldest 84 so clearly there's time for me to devise some genius improvement to an existing invention or create something utterly new!
I'd also had a chat [yes, I do chat a lot - I hold my hands up to that] with a lady who spends her free time collecting pegs. Yes, you read that right. Pegs.
Pegs that you hang washing out with? Yes, those pegs.
Now, in my ignorance, I didn't think there were too many different types/styles of pegs around but - No! Since I spoke to her I've done a little audit of my own and there's quite a range of style and design. I'm not sure what she plans to do with her collection - presently numbering 40+ apparently - but she assures me it is a useful past time and she enjoys it. Each to their own. You'd never catch me collecting anything obscure or trivial.
For a while I collected books about Alphonse Mucha and Ladybird Well Loved Tales [WLT to those in the know] category 606D, matt finish of course. None of your glossy rubbish. Two separate collections you understand, not a Mucha /WLT combo although frankly were something like that to exist I may well self combust with excitement.
I haven't acquired anything recently but now I'm itching to visit to ebay. I think His Nibs card may be about to take a dent or two.
Today I learned that the most financially successful invention to date is the ring pull. Well, well...
I was chatting to a man [We'll call him Fred]whose job it is to protect the ideas and inventions of Scotland's innovators. He is approached by an average of six people a week convinced that their idea is the Next Big Thing.
Fred told me that only around 10 % of ideas ever come to anything but his job is very interesting. The youngest successful inventor he has dealt with was 12 years old and the oldest 84 so clearly there's time for me to devise some genius improvement to an existing invention or create something utterly new!
I'd also had a chat [yes, I do chat a lot - I hold my hands up to that] with a lady who spends her free time collecting pegs. Yes, you read that right. Pegs.
Pegs that you hang washing out with? Yes, those pegs.
Now, in my ignorance, I didn't think there were too many different types/styles of pegs around but - No! Since I spoke to her I've done a little audit of my own and there's quite a range of style and design. I'm not sure what she plans to do with her collection - presently numbering 40+ apparently - but she assures me it is a useful past time and she enjoys it. Each to their own. You'd never catch me collecting anything obscure or trivial.
For a while I collected books about Alphonse Mucha and Ladybird Well Loved Tales [WLT to those in the know] category 606D, matt finish of course. None of your glossy rubbish. Two separate collections you understand, not a Mucha /WLT combo although frankly were something like that to exist I may well self combust with excitement.
I haven't acquired anything recently but now I'm itching to visit to ebay. I think His Nibs card may be about to take a dent or two.
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Mixed bag
Today I shall share with you, dear reader, the further joys of widening one's horizons.
Recently I met a chap who spends his free time rescuing and healing maltreated reptiles. In his tiny house I was introduced to a variety of animals including Sly the redtail boa constrictor and Jackie the... um... lizard. [My memory isn't what it was, sorry.] It was floor to ceiling tanking and care products. Very interesting. Hot and a bit claustrophobic but very interesting.
From him I learned that the main difference between a snake and a lizard is that the snake has no eyelids. Also, to sex a snake one has to insert a rod into a specific hole and see how far up it goes. My eyes were watering at the mere concept.
He also mocked movie style life saving techniques regarding snake bites. "if you suck the venom out into your mouth, you'd be dead quicker than the person who'd been bitten".
I felt all Indiana Jonesy just standing next to him.
A day later I found myself exploring different territory. This time I was accompanying His Nibs to a celebration of Chinese New Year. I knew no-one there except my driver. In a professional setting this is fairly normal but in personal and social terms this is rare for me.
The host and hostess were lovely although I didn't have lengthy conversations with them because there was a fair number of guests. Two of the guests happened to be two company directors and also the bosses of everyone at the party except myself and the hostess. It was quite surreal. The bosses, who could have used the opportunity to build positive relations with the team, completely dominated any and all conversations. The most senior boss regaled everyone with stories ranging from the grand daughter's skill at colouring in, to the traumas of EU legislation on the sale of herbal medicines. Scintillating stuff.
The other boss who happens to be the daughter of the senior boss [ are you still with me?] followed suit with exciting tales of price reductions in garden centres and the intricacies of hanging metallic backed wallpaper. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Thank god for the delicious food.
Perhaps they were genuinely trying to socialise successfully with their employees but I wish we'd had longer to hear the views of the hosts or other guests. Just once even.
Recently I met a chap who spends his free time rescuing and healing maltreated reptiles. In his tiny house I was introduced to a variety of animals including Sly the redtail boa constrictor and Jackie the... um... lizard. [My memory isn't what it was, sorry.] It was floor to ceiling tanking and care products. Very interesting. Hot and a bit claustrophobic but very interesting.
From him I learned that the main difference between a snake and a lizard is that the snake has no eyelids. Also, to sex a snake one has to insert a rod into a specific hole and see how far up it goes. My eyes were watering at the mere concept.
He also mocked movie style life saving techniques regarding snake bites. "if you suck the venom out into your mouth, you'd be dead quicker than the person who'd been bitten".
I felt all Indiana Jonesy just standing next to him.
A day later I found myself exploring different territory. This time I was accompanying His Nibs to a celebration of Chinese New Year. I knew no-one there except my driver. In a professional setting this is fairly normal but in personal and social terms this is rare for me.
The host and hostess were lovely although I didn't have lengthy conversations with them because there was a fair number of guests. Two of the guests happened to be two company directors and also the bosses of everyone at the party except myself and the hostess. It was quite surreal. The bosses, who could have used the opportunity to build positive relations with the team, completely dominated any and all conversations. The most senior boss regaled everyone with stories ranging from the grand daughter's skill at colouring in, to the traumas of EU legislation on the sale of herbal medicines. Scintillating stuff.
The other boss who happens to be the daughter of the senior boss [ are you still with me?] followed suit with exciting tales of price reductions in garden centres and the intricacies of hanging metallic backed wallpaper. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ
Thank god for the delicious food.
Perhaps they were genuinely trying to socialise successfully with their employees but I wish we'd had longer to hear the views of the hosts or other guests. Just once even.
Wednesday, 21 January 2009
It's not the winning...
Have you ever participated in a 'Just for fun' Quiz Night? I don't think there is such a thing. Sure, it may start off being light hearted and jovial but before long jaws will set and answers will be closely guarded.
Tonight I saw grandmothers adopt gangster like behaviour. Ordinary decent people became fevered game players - in all senses.
I, of course, was above such behaviour. I did not, for instance, glare menacingly at small children who knew more about Tweenies than I did. I did not make Psycho style 'whee whee' dagger motions towards rival teams nor did I try to bribe the quizmaster with a bag of boiled sweets and a Ripple. At no time did I mutter decoy answers to the clearly eavesdropping team next to ours. No, none of those things happened. Honest. Well, ok they did.
As it turned out, our team won. We were gracious as we accepted our sparkly goody bags and bestowed humble smiles upon the LOSERS!!!
Given that the goody bags contained a box of sweets, a notebook, a pencil and a glow in the dark stick there's no telling how far we'd go for an actual trophy.
Tonight I saw grandmothers adopt gangster like behaviour. Ordinary decent people became fevered game players - in all senses.
I, of course, was above such behaviour. I did not, for instance, glare menacingly at small children who knew more about Tweenies than I did. I did not make Psycho style 'whee whee' dagger motions towards rival teams nor did I try to bribe the quizmaster with a bag of boiled sweets and a Ripple. At no time did I mutter decoy answers to the clearly eavesdropping team next to ours. No, none of those things happened. Honest. Well, ok they did.
As it turned out, our team won. We were gracious as we accepted our sparkly goody bags and bestowed humble smiles upon the LOSERS!!!
Given that the goody bags contained a box of sweets, a notebook, a pencil and a glow in the dark stick there's no telling how far we'd go for an actual trophy.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
Fitness freak
This little entry is about fitness. A former friend [ Normski] informed me this week that on my next birthday I shall be officially middle aged. Eh? Tis not possible. I've yet to reach my prime. Could I have reached my prime and not noticed? Bugger.
Anyway, I am now entering my third year of 'Keep Fit' so technically I should be lithe, sprightly and energised. In year one, I was presented with a shiny pin badge for joining. In year two, the new year gift was a handy 'shopping trolley fake coin on a key ring' thingy. This year, we got a trendy Eco friendly bag with the corporate logo emblazoned on the side. All very nice thanks but frankly I'd trade them all in for the ability to touch the toes on the ends of my very short legs. I've paid my dues faithfully and grunted with the best of them. But no, I'm still decidedly stecky.
I wouldn't mind so much but there are women at this group, twice my age, who can fold their legs behind their ears while they knit Arran sweaters. I kid you not. There's one lady who bends herself so far she can practically shake hands with everyone in the three back rows. Me? I can hardly bend to get my jazz shoes on.
You may be interested to know that some women make the occasional thrrrrrrrrt kind of noise when they bend over. That came as a great surprise to me. Do you know how hard it is not to laugh when the lady next to you is parping away like a Skoda in a traffic jam? Not easy.
I only agreed to go to the flaming group because you have to be over 40 to join. We were the youngest there by about 20 years. That'll do us. How hard can it be? Hah! Each week I stagger home red faced and breathless - from embarrassment as much as exertion - to find I'm no closer to my toes than I was the week before.
Never mind, perhaps next year they'll give us some Tupperware.
Anyway, I am now entering my third year of 'Keep Fit' so technically I should be lithe, sprightly and energised. In year one, I was presented with a shiny pin badge for joining. In year two, the new year gift was a handy 'shopping trolley fake coin on a key ring' thingy. This year, we got a trendy Eco friendly bag with the corporate logo emblazoned on the side. All very nice thanks but frankly I'd trade them all in for the ability to touch the toes on the ends of my very short legs. I've paid my dues faithfully and grunted with the best of them. But no, I'm still decidedly stecky.
I wouldn't mind so much but there are women at this group, twice my age, who can fold their legs behind their ears while they knit Arran sweaters. I kid you not. There's one lady who bends herself so far she can practically shake hands with everyone in the three back rows. Me? I can hardly bend to get my jazz shoes on.
You may be interested to know that some women make the occasional thrrrrrrrrt kind of noise when they bend over. That came as a great surprise to me. Do you know how hard it is not to laugh when the lady next to you is parping away like a Skoda in a traffic jam? Not easy.
I only agreed to go to the flaming group because you have to be over 40 to join. We were the youngest there by about 20 years. That'll do us. How hard can it be? Hah! Each week I stagger home red faced and breathless - from embarrassment as much as exertion - to find I'm no closer to my toes than I was the week before.
Never mind, perhaps next year they'll give us some Tupperware.
Saturday, 10 January 2009
Beer flavoured crisps and other oddities
In the news this week was an item concerning the introduction of new flavours of crisps. Why this became national news I don't know but hey, it makes a change from large scale job losses and fighting in Gaza.
The BBC decided to send its hardiest journalists out on some vital vox pop missions. There was the obligatory traditionalist who didn't see the need for change - ' I'm more a cheese and onion man meseslf'', the cheery but slightly barking pensioner who scoffs Bloody Mary crisps and flirts with the camera man -'ooh they're different aren't they? Quite tasty. Will I get a bit tipsy then..?' and the worryingly intense chap who objected to the Cajun Squirrel crisps because' They do not taste like the squirrel. I have eaten the squirrel and this I know.' He had a touch of the Hannibal Lectors about him, if you ask me but then again my imagination is somewhat prone to extremes.
Like today for instance - His Nibs and I were driving along a country road when a car approached slowly in the opposite direction, hazard lights flashing. It was just creeping along. His Nibs considered why this might be. Could it be towing someone says I? Nope, says he, the other car would have lights flashing. [The following car it transpired was indeed rope free and not being towed by the creeping one in front.] Maybe, says I, there's been a carjacking and the driver is surreptitiously trying to alert us! All very James Bond. His Nibs sighed tolerantly and explained in words of one syllable that that could be a possibility but that the car had only one occupant and he looked pretty burly. He didn't quite pat me on the head but you get the idea. There's a lot of that goes on in our marriage but that's a potential witter fest of epic proportions...
The BBC decided to send its hardiest journalists out on some vital vox pop missions. There was the obligatory traditionalist who didn't see the need for change - ' I'm more a cheese and onion man meseslf'', the cheery but slightly barking pensioner who scoffs Bloody Mary crisps and flirts with the camera man -'ooh they're different aren't they? Quite tasty. Will I get a bit tipsy then..?' and the worryingly intense chap who objected to the Cajun Squirrel crisps because' They do not taste like the squirrel. I have eaten the squirrel and this I know.' He had a touch of the Hannibal Lectors about him, if you ask me but then again my imagination is somewhat prone to extremes.
Like today for instance - His Nibs and I were driving along a country road when a car approached slowly in the opposite direction, hazard lights flashing. It was just creeping along. His Nibs considered why this might be. Could it be towing someone says I? Nope, says he, the other car would have lights flashing. [The following car it transpired was indeed rope free and not being towed by the creeping one in front.] Maybe, says I, there's been a carjacking and the driver is surreptitiously trying to alert us! All very James Bond. His Nibs sighed tolerantly and explained in words of one syllable that that could be a possibility but that the car had only one occupant and he looked pretty burly. He didn't quite pat me on the head but you get the idea. There's a lot of that goes on in our marriage but that's a potential witter fest of epic proportions...
Monday, 5 January 2009
Have li-lo will travel
This afternoon I had the radio on and had the good fortune to catch a particular news item which made me chuckle.
Apparently, two children tried to elope to Africa to get married. Aged six and seven, they planned to have a five year old as their witness. So it was legal, of course.
They'd packed sunglasses, swimming trunks, summer clothes, some provisions and a li-lo. Job done.
While their parents slept, they 'd walked a mile to the tram stop, taken a tram to the railway station which would ultimately have taken them to the airport.
A railway guard alerted police and the children were persuaded to wait a few years since they couldn't go far without money or a ticket. They were given a tour of the local police station instead by way of consolation. Eh? Africa/police station? Hot n sunny meets dingy and crim filled. Surely someone somewhere might have had a more imaginative consolation prize to offer...? Oops I digress.
Now, I have THE most vivid imagination and I could easily picture these little lovebirds [ and their 5 year old witness] toddling along; sunglasses on, li-lo at the ready, hauling their case to sunny Africa. A part of me would have liked them to have made it a bit further. It has the makings of a Frank Capra movie about it. Especially the beautiful metaphor that is the li-lo. Genius.
Forget the credit crunch, forget national disasters...We should have more news items like this.
Apparently, two children tried to elope to Africa to get married. Aged six and seven, they planned to have a five year old as their witness. So it was legal, of course.
They'd packed sunglasses, swimming trunks, summer clothes, some provisions and a li-lo. Job done.
While their parents slept, they 'd walked a mile to the tram stop, taken a tram to the railway station which would ultimately have taken them to the airport.
A railway guard alerted police and the children were persuaded to wait a few years since they couldn't go far without money or a ticket. They were given a tour of the local police station instead by way of consolation. Eh? Africa/police station? Hot n sunny meets dingy and crim filled. Surely someone somewhere might have had a more imaginative consolation prize to offer...? Oops I digress.
Now, I have THE most vivid imagination and I could easily picture these little lovebirds [ and their 5 year old witness] toddling along; sunglasses on, li-lo at the ready, hauling their case to sunny Africa. A part of me would have liked them to have made it a bit further. It has the makings of a Frank Capra movie about it. Especially the beautiful metaphor that is the li-lo. Genius.
Forget the credit crunch, forget national disasters...We should have more news items like this.
Saturday, 3 January 2009
New beginnings
Well, here we are at the bright, shiny start to the year. Excellent.
Hangovers are subsiding and resolutions are still affixed to fridges in crisp hopefulness. Most people are looking ahead. I'm still somewhat drawn to 2008 though.
Having acquired a bit of a Lurgy I've been stuck indoors for a few days. Cabin fever set in shortly after the Lurgy. His Nibs wanted me to go for a walk but since just getting to the bathroom took me an age we decided against that. In the end we opted for a short stroll across the back garden.
And, since I hadn't washed my hair for four days, our stroll took place at night. In the very, very dark. [Even in the depths of Lurgy vanity is a powerful motivator.] My plan was to have a covert sortie - Ninja style, unbeknownst to the long suffering neighbours who simply don't deserve to have a wild haired, puff eyed wee goblin appear over the fence.
Sadly, I had forgotten our security light which promptly revealed me in all my rumpled dressing gown and snotty tissued glory. I was in no condition to bolt back to the house so if the neighbours did see me they'll likely add my late night stroll to their list of "She's at it again".
Anyway, the plus side of all this was that His Nibs pointed out that there was some new growth in the garden. Some fresh green shoots have appeared on the eucalyptus tree we decided to 'remove' last summer. The tree which had been a lovely specimen had simply grown far too big for the plot. Its reward was to be hacked into oblivion by two lumberjack wannabes. They went at it with saws, axes and assorted choppy things. Jack Nicolson had nothing on them. Much eye darting and Here's Johnny grins later, the beautiful blue green trunk and branches littered the garden. It was like gardening armageddon.
Now however, in the crisp January air, the little shoots are proof that just when you think all is lost, it's not.
Hangovers are subsiding and resolutions are still affixed to fridges in crisp hopefulness. Most people are looking ahead. I'm still somewhat drawn to 2008 though.
Having acquired a bit of a Lurgy I've been stuck indoors for a few days. Cabin fever set in shortly after the Lurgy. His Nibs wanted me to go for a walk but since just getting to the bathroom took me an age we decided against that. In the end we opted for a short stroll across the back garden.
And, since I hadn't washed my hair for four days, our stroll took place at night. In the very, very dark. [Even in the depths of Lurgy vanity is a powerful motivator.] My plan was to have a covert sortie - Ninja style, unbeknownst to the long suffering neighbours who simply don't deserve to have a wild haired, puff eyed wee goblin appear over the fence.
Sadly, I had forgotten our security light which promptly revealed me in all my rumpled dressing gown and snotty tissued glory. I was in no condition to bolt back to the house so if the neighbours did see me they'll likely add my late night stroll to their list of "She's at it again".
Anyway, the plus side of all this was that His Nibs pointed out that there was some new growth in the garden. Some fresh green shoots have appeared on the eucalyptus tree we decided to 'remove' last summer. The tree which had been a lovely specimen had simply grown far too big for the plot. Its reward was to be hacked into oblivion by two lumberjack wannabes. They went at it with saws, axes and assorted choppy things. Jack Nicolson had nothing on them. Much eye darting and Here's Johnny grins later, the beautiful blue green trunk and branches littered the garden. It was like gardening armageddon.
Now however, in the crisp January air, the little shoots are proof that just when you think all is lost, it's not.
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