This weekend, I left a copy of Gardener's World Magazine in the Magic Cafe, having left the Bhuto dancers' after show party before the end because I had drunk too much red wine in Leamington Spa. I met a 15 year old skateboarder from Aldermaston on the way there (on his way to a falconry in Yorkshire) and a 40 year old engineer from Mumbai on the way back (on his way, bless him, to Banbury). My trainers are still covered in Warwickshire mud and I am full of rediscovered warmth for A, who, among other things, understands why it's hard to order king prawns from the Chinese takeaway (the mangroves! the mangroves!).
The next day, I had the pleasure of wrapping up a cutting edge (arf!) lawn edger for R, who had, I hope, equal pleasure in unwrapping it. Much fizz, many posh snacks and general party fun ensued, plus a bit of mental John-we're-only-dancing. Smelly cheese for bank holiday breakfast, a bit of how big are those hailstones and what month are we in exactly, then off to bed to finish Divided Kingdom, which left me feeling butterflied like a Mekong prawn. I did the quiz on the website, and I'm a melancholic. If you read the small print, it's actually the sanest thing to be, though I rather fancied myself a phlegmatic.
joella
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
My dad's World Cup viral
I rarely think Friday funnies are remotely funny, and I am usually slightly disappointed when I get one from someone I thought would not buy into this particular form of the lowest common denominator. So when my dad forwarded me this, I grimaced slightly. But then I went out tonight and it had me laughing all the way down Cowley Road and all the way home...
DEPARTMENT OF TRANSPORT INFORMATION RELEASE - MAY 2006.
Due to the quality of driving in England the Department of Transport has launched a new scheme to identify poor drivers, and to give good drivers the opportunity to recognise them.
As from the middle of May 2006 drivers performing the following actions will be designated bad drivers:
- overtaking in dangerous places;
- hovering within one inch of the car in front;
- stopping sharply;
- speeding in residential areas;
- pulling out without indication;
- performing U turns inappropriately in busy highstreets;
- undertaking on motorways and
- taking up more than one lane in multi-lane roads.
These drivers will be issued with flags, white with a red cross, clearly identifying them as bad drivers. These flags must be clipped to a door of the car, and be visible to all other drivers and pedestrians.
Particularly bad drivers will have to display a flag on each side of the car to indicate their lower intelligence to the general public.
Please circulate this to as many other motorists as you can so that drivers and pedestrians will be aware of the meaning of these flags.
Department of Transport
joella
DEPARTMENT OF TRANSPORT INFORMATION RELEASE - MAY 2006.
Due to the quality of driving in England the Department of Transport has launched a new scheme to identify poor drivers, and to give good drivers the opportunity to recognise them.
As from the middle of May 2006 drivers performing the following actions will be designated bad drivers:
- overtaking in dangerous places;
- hovering within one inch of the car in front;
- stopping sharply;
- speeding in residential areas;
- pulling out without indication;
- performing U turns inappropriately in busy highstreets;
- undertaking on motorways and
- taking up more than one lane in multi-lane roads.
These drivers will be issued with flags, white with a red cross, clearly identifying them as bad drivers. These flags must be clipped to a door of the car, and be visible to all other drivers and pedestrians.
Particularly bad drivers will have to display a flag on each side of the car to indicate their lower intelligence to the general public.
Please circulate this to as many other motorists as you can so that drivers and pedestrians will be aware of the meaning of these flags.
Department of Transport
joella
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
As the blogosphere is my witness, I declare that cassettes are not dead!
I reckon that five years hence, at the end of May 2011, you will still be able to buy a tape deck, maybe only online, but from a UK retailer.
My friend Andy reckons you won't.
As of this evening, we have a wager on this. The winner gets an album of their choice, in a format of their choice. Assuming there are still albums, of course.
joella
My friend Andy reckons you won't.
As of this evening, we have a wager on this. The winner gets an album of their choice, in a format of their choice. Assuming there are still albums, of course.
joella
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Poleaxed in Schiphol
I went to the Netherlands last week for a short work trip. It was a good trip, but I do find the Netherlands a funny place... clean, efficient and controlled on the surface, but something else going on underneath. I am not sure a complete lack of grunge is good for the psyche.
I was musing on all this as I returned by smooth, ultra-punctual public transport to Schiphol airport, only to find that my British Midland flight was delayed by 90 minutes because of the weather in London. Bloody marvellous.
So I took my time, and looked around... bought a bright pink case on wheels (adult luggage at last!), some orange gladioli bulbs and some extra mature Gouda. And then I saw this big neon flashing tower, which everyone else seemed to be ignoring.
It started gently, orange text on black:
And then slowly got more paranoid and apocalyptic. Ten minutes later it was flashing red and green...
I was rooted to the spot. Would there be proclamations about flames devouring the enemy in an airport in the average country these days? I rather think not.
When I got home I found out it had been there since 1995. One weblog has said about it: "Some airport managers do try out new tools and techniques to make complex space more inhabitable. Schiphol in Amsterdam, for example, installed a large Jenny Holzer artwork in one particularly vapid void. Cryptic words and phrases flow up and down the 20 metre-high stack of digital displays all day long. Jenny Holzer's use of typography and digital displays has a particular resonance for anyone contemplating the notion of semiotic pollution in the sheer volume of information swirling around us. I guess these are the first artists to have spent a lot of their lives staring at departure boards. But this large, strong, clearly-conceived, and subversive object, is pitiful in the context of Schiphol as a whole. Phenomenologically, it is inert. It is powerless to communicate amidst the silent roar of people, movement and information that pervades the airport."
I don't agree. It freaked me out no end. But that was written in 2000, so maybe it was a work of art waiting for airside paranoia to really take off.
joella
I was musing on all this as I returned by smooth, ultra-punctual public transport to Schiphol airport, only to find that my British Midland flight was delayed by 90 minutes because of the weather in London. Bloody marvellous.
So I took my time, and looked around... bought a bright pink case on wheels (adult luggage at last!), some orange gladioli bulbs and some extra mature Gouda. And then I saw this big neon flashing tower, which everyone else seemed to be ignoring.
It started gently, orange text on black:
Ignoring enemies is the best way
Illness is a state of mind
Imposing order is man's vocation, for chaos is hell
It can be helpful to keep going no matter what
And then slowly got more paranoid and apocalyptic. Ten minutes later it was flashing red and green...
Waiting is weakness
Weakness is slavery
Burn down the system that has no place for you
Everything conspires to make you hungry and afraid for your babies
LET THE FLAMES DEVOUR THE ENEMY!
I was rooted to the spot. Would there be proclamations about flames devouring the enemy in an airport in the average country these days? I rather think not.
When I got home I found out it had been there since 1995. One weblog has said about it: "Some airport managers do try out new tools and techniques to make complex space more inhabitable. Schiphol in Amsterdam, for example, installed a large Jenny Holzer artwork in one particularly vapid void. Cryptic words and phrases flow up and down the 20 metre-high stack of digital displays all day long. Jenny Holzer's use of typography and digital displays has a particular resonance for anyone contemplating the notion of semiotic pollution in the sheer volume of information swirling around us. I guess these are the first artists to have spent a lot of their lives staring at departure boards. But this large, strong, clearly-conceived, and subversive object, is pitiful in the context of Schiphol as a whole. Phenomenologically, it is inert. It is powerless to communicate amidst the silent roar of people, movement and information that pervades the airport."
I don't agree. It freaked me out no end. But that was written in 2000, so maybe it was a work of art waiting for airside paranoia to really take off.
joella
Monday, May 22, 2006
Rings and eggs
There are engagements and pregnancies everywhere at the moment. Is it a spring thing? I guess it might be, and I am of course delighted for all concerned, whichever order they are happening in.
But I still find the whole business a bit alien, and then get stuck on whether I am a bit alien for finding it so. So I was interested to hear of a week long series of plays on Radio 4 about women who don't have children -- all called, appropriately enough, 'Childless'.
I made a special effort to listen to the first one tonight. And tie my tubes if it wasn't the most heavy handed, un-nuanced thing I think I have ever heard on the subject. Woman doesn't have children of her own because she devoted to life as NGO worker in Third World. Extended family member has four children and is screechy about their needs and rights at expense of adult interests. Husband of extended family member tries to get off with NGO worker because wife only cares about children and NGO worker has kept the faith.
At the end it said 'if you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this play etc etc confidential etc etc'. I wanted to ring up and say 'Oh purlease. How is this sort of simplistic cant supposed to help anyone deal with any issues at all?'.
But I thought no, I better not block up the helpline just in case there are people with way more work to do on this issue than me. On the whole, it made me feel better, not worse, so there's something to write home about.
joella
But I still find the whole business a bit alien, and then get stuck on whether I am a bit alien for finding it so. So I was interested to hear of a week long series of plays on Radio 4 about women who don't have children -- all called, appropriately enough, 'Childless'.
I made a special effort to listen to the first one tonight. And tie my tubes if it wasn't the most heavy handed, un-nuanced thing I think I have ever heard on the subject. Woman doesn't have children of her own because she devoted to life as NGO worker in Third World. Extended family member has four children and is screechy about their needs and rights at expense of adult interests. Husband of extended family member tries to get off with NGO worker because wife only cares about children and NGO worker has kept the faith.
At the end it said 'if you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this play etc etc confidential etc etc'. I wanted to ring up and say 'Oh purlease. How is this sort of simplistic cant supposed to help anyone deal with any issues at all?'.
But I thought no, I better not block up the helpline just in case there are people with way more work to do on this issue than me. On the whole, it made me feel better, not worse, so there's something to write home about.
joella
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Don't give away the goods too soon, is what she might have told me
So. It was the 21st of May 1986.
It was school sports day. I was in the Lower Sixth, and yet again I had managed not to be selected to represent anyone at anything. I did this seven years in a row, and I think I probably deserved a medal just for that, because it wasn't easy.
In my younger years I had to do humiliating things like hold the finishing tape, or help the games teachers measure out the distances between the hurdles. In the Lower Sixth, though, all that was required of me was to turn up and cheer on my house. We had to sign in at 2 when it started, and then sign in again at 4, presumably to prove that we hadn't bunked off.
Two hours was more than I needed. I signed in, stood visibly on the sidelines for a couple of races, then slipped off down the road to E's house. He was in the Upper Sixth and about to do his A-levels. If you were in the Upper Sixth and you weren't running, jumping or throwing something, you didn't even have to show.
He let me in. We had a cup of coffee, and I had a cigarette. Shall we do it then? I said. All right, he said. We went upstairs to his bedroom. It was sunny outside, but his curtains were always closed. For about a year I thought his bedroom was at the back of the house when in fact it was at the front.
We got undressed. We'd done this part before, so there were no huge revelations. I spent a long time fiddling with something called C-Film -- a sticky contraceptive film that I had found in Boots but which came with minimal instructions, and then we both spent a long time fiddling with a condom. Finally, we were ready.
On the plus side, it didn't hurt, there wasn't any blood (why, I don't know), and I was on top. This was far more a self-conscious decision not to be a virgin anymore than a great passionate moment, and this was the position I had decided it should happen in. I didn't have a clue what to do, but I was pleased to have ticked that box.
On the minus side, I didn't really feel anything at all. I did not pass through the doors of perception, the world did not change. The only words spoken were his: about 30 seconds in (of a total of about 45) he said 'god, it's hot in here. You could fry an egg on the end of my knob'.
This was probably because I am in fact allergic to spermicide. I didn't know this at the time, of course, but a double dose of the stuff didn't do me any good. If memory serves, we then did it again, another 45 seconds but the other way up.
And then he leapt off me and straight into the shower, as if the whole experience called for immediate vigorous scrubbing and anointing with Kouros. I lay there by myself and had my first experience of post-coital existential loneliness.
It was disproportionately powerful, and in fact the first real thing I had felt all afternoon. I put my pants back on, smoked a Silk Cut and listened to Marlene on the Wall, already on the turntable as if just waiting for me.
He walked me back to school, but as soon as we got there he hared off to let his friends know they could no longer refer to him as the Virgin Wimp. I went to find schoolmate S (who later became housemate S), who was long jumping or 200 metering or something, and told her of my new status.
We were hungry, so we went to find sandwiches in the pavilion. In there was Mr W, one of our geography teachers. There was a book poking out of his anorak pocket, and we could see the words 'The Joy Of'. Sir, sir, what's your book, we giggled at him.
He lifted it out. It was 'The Joy of Stamps'.
I signed in at four o'clock and got the bus home.
joella
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It was school sports day. I was in the Lower Sixth, and yet again I had managed not to be selected to represent anyone at anything. I did this seven years in a row, and I think I probably deserved a medal just for that, because it wasn't easy.
In my younger years I had to do humiliating things like hold the finishing tape, or help the games teachers measure out the distances between the hurdles. In the Lower Sixth, though, all that was required of me was to turn up and cheer on my house. We had to sign in at 2 when it started, and then sign in again at 4, presumably to prove that we hadn't bunked off.
Two hours was more than I needed. I signed in, stood visibly on the sidelines for a couple of races, then slipped off down the road to E's house. He was in the Upper Sixth and about to do his A-levels. If you were in the Upper Sixth and you weren't running, jumping or throwing something, you didn't even have to show.
He let me in. We had a cup of coffee, and I had a cigarette. Shall we do it then? I said. All right, he said. We went upstairs to his bedroom. It was sunny outside, but his curtains were always closed. For about a year I thought his bedroom was at the back of the house when in fact it was at the front.
We got undressed. We'd done this part before, so there were no huge revelations. I spent a long time fiddling with something called C-Film -- a sticky contraceptive film that I had found in Boots but which came with minimal instructions, and then we both spent a long time fiddling with a condom. Finally, we were ready.
On the plus side, it didn't hurt, there wasn't any blood (why, I don't know), and I was on top. This was far more a self-conscious decision not to be a virgin anymore than a great passionate moment, and this was the position I had decided it should happen in. I didn't have a clue what to do, but I was pleased to have ticked that box.
On the minus side, I didn't really feel anything at all. I did not pass through the doors of perception, the world did not change. The only words spoken were his: about 30 seconds in (of a total of about 45) he said 'god, it's hot in here. You could fry an egg on the end of my knob'.
This was probably because I am in fact allergic to spermicide. I didn't know this at the time, of course, but a double dose of the stuff didn't do me any good. If memory serves, we then did it again, another 45 seconds but the other way up.
And then he leapt off me and straight into the shower, as if the whole experience called for immediate vigorous scrubbing and anointing with Kouros. I lay there by myself and had my first experience of post-coital existential loneliness.
It was disproportionately powerful, and in fact the first real thing I had felt all afternoon. I put my pants back on, smoked a Silk Cut and listened to Marlene on the Wall, already on the turntable as if just waiting for me.
He walked me back to school, but as soon as we got there he hared off to let his friends know they could no longer refer to him as the Virgin Wimp. I went to find schoolmate S (who later became housemate S), who was long jumping or 200 metering or something, and told her of my new status.
We were hungry, so we went to find sandwiches in the pavilion. In there was Mr W, one of our geography teachers. There was a book poking out of his anorak pocket, and we could see the words 'The Joy Of'. Sir, sir, what's your book, we giggled at him.
He lifted it out. It was 'The Joy of Stamps'.
I signed in at four o'clock and got the bus home.
joella
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Saturday, May 20, 2006
Incoming!
I don't normally trail posts... but come tomorrow it wil be 20 years since I lost my virginity. How old that makes me feel.
Anyway, it's a good story, and I feel enough time has passed to render it tellable. If the thought of this makes you queasy, perhaps avoid joella for a couple of days...
Hasta mañana
joella
Friday, May 19, 2006
Tonight in Jungleland
"...and the poets down here write nothing at all, they just stand back and let all be."
I'm not exactly out there giving it some tonight... long week, rising hormonal tide, better offer in the form of home made pizza and half price Chateauneuf du Pape. But in mitigation I *am* watching classic live footage on BBC4 of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band from 1975. He looks like a cross between a skinny white Rasta and early Billy Bragg. Incredible but true.
So I am rocking in the free world once removed. If the encore is Born to Run I will be up there dancing by myself, just like the old days.
joella
Sleeping in the room of a poet
Sleeping in the room of a poet
Originally uploaded by joellaflickr.
You know those photos you don't remember taking? This is one of them, taken last weekend while I was about to go to sleep in the room where my friend K writes poems by day. In the same batch: the big log and the pink bush. Not the big log I originally referred to, but you know how these things go.
Oh, and my personal favourite, under the gunnera. Every home should have some.
joella
Monday, May 15, 2006
Traffic calming brainwave
We were walking up the hill on our way back from a curry tonight (we were taking part in Celebrasian, er, celebrations) when yet another car burnt past us at a ridiculous speed.
If I were suicidal, I'd leap out in front of one of them. I would be dead, so mission accomplished, and they'd never speed again and serve them jolly well right.
But I'm not suicidal so that's not really a plan. As it is I sometimes make like I'm going to step out in front of them so they slam their brakes on, but that's not really a plan either if I think about it soberly.
But tonight we came up with a great idea. What we need is child-sized crash test dummies on sticks! Then you crouch in between two parked cars, and at the rubber-squealing approach of the next boy racer, you poke it out into the road.
Boy racer slows down to avoid child-sized crash test dummy, then drives off with poignant 'that could have been a real child' thoughts and never steams up (or down) hill again.
I think that's got mileage. Maybe I'll write to the council.
joella
If I were suicidal, I'd leap out in front of one of them. I would be dead, so mission accomplished, and they'd never speed again and serve them jolly well right.
But I'm not suicidal so that's not really a plan. As it is I sometimes make like I'm going to step out in front of them so they slam their brakes on, but that's not really a plan either if I think about it soberly.
But tonight we came up with a great idea. What we need is child-sized crash test dummies on sticks! Then you crouch in between two parked cars, and at the rubber-squealing approach of the next boy racer, you poke it out into the road.
Boy racer slows down to avoid child-sized crash test dummy, then drives off with poignant 'that could have been a real child' thoughts and never steams up (or down) hill again.
I think that's got mileage. Maybe I'll write to the council.
joella
Smokin'
Oh deary me. This weekend I discovered a 'hand-rolling tobacco alternative'. You can buy it in *health food shops*. I was smiling all the way to bed. And again when I woke up in the morning. Though that may have had something to do with something you can't buy in health food shops.
The weekend also featured a big log and a pink bush. Photos will follow.
joella
The weekend also featured a big log and a pink bush. Photos will follow.
joella
Friday, May 12, 2006
Ocado is now delivering in my area!
I have just had an email from Ocado to let me know that I can now "order fresh Waitrose groceries to be delivered in a convenient one-hour slot, straight to my kitchen by Ocado."
To reward me for my patience and as a little 'Welcome to Ocado' gift they'd like to give me 15% off my first shop with them. All I have to do is spend over £90 (which means the delivery charge is free too!), then at the end of my order enter the special code and 15% will be automatically deducted from my bill.
(Spend over HOW MUCH? But then I've never come out of Waitrose with change from £100 so maybe it's not that outrageous)
Anyway, I thought I would share the good news with any OX4 readers. We are officially civilised! I am going to wipe them out of French Onion and Cider Soup and blue cheese made from buffalo milk right this very minute.
joella
To reward me for my patience and as a little 'Welcome to Ocado' gift they'd like to give me 15% off my first shop with them. All I have to do is spend over £90 (which means the delivery charge is free too!), then at the end of my order enter the special code and 15% will be automatically deducted from my bill.
(Spend over HOW MUCH? But then I've never come out of Waitrose with change from £100 so maybe it's not that outrageous)
Anyway, I thought I would share the good news with any OX4 readers. We are officially civilised! I am going to wipe them out of French Onion and Cider Soup and blue cheese made from buffalo milk right this very minute.
joella
Neun und neunzig corken sporken
I am not quite sure that's the correct German, but never minden.
For the last few years I have been collecting corks. I started collecting them because I read in a gardening magazine that they were good for putting in the bottom of pots. Which they are, but they are also, en masse, rather beautiful, and so we have simply amassed them.
Lots of them. During my week off I cleared out the drawer they were spilling out of and split them into real corks and fake ones, on the grounds that the fake ones are ugly and can be used as pot drainage, while the real ones can be fashioned into something with no discernible use which can take up space and gather dust.
Anyway, there were 99 real ones and 74 fake ones. Oh, and four fizz ones -- I am sure we've had more fizz than that, but maybe they got popped out the door. That's a respectable amount of wine don't you think, even if you don't count the screw tops we threw away.
I arranged the pretty ones (see some of them here) and admired them for a while, and then put them away in my Zambian basket for safe keeping. I am not sure this is healthy on any level. But I am not sure I care.
joella
For the last few years I have been collecting corks. I started collecting them because I read in a gardening magazine that they were good for putting in the bottom of pots. Which they are, but they are also, en masse, rather beautiful, and so we have simply amassed them.
Lots of them. During my week off I cleared out the drawer they were spilling out of and split them into real corks and fake ones, on the grounds that the fake ones are ugly and can be used as pot drainage, while the real ones can be fashioned into something with no discernible use which can take up space and gather dust.
Anyway, there were 99 real ones and 74 fake ones. Oh, and four fizz ones -- I am sure we've had more fizz than that, but maybe they got popped out the door. That's a respectable amount of wine don't you think, even if you don't count the screw tops we threw away.
I arranged the pretty ones (see some of them here) and admired them for a while, and then put them away in my Zambian basket for safe keeping. I am not sure this is healthy on any level. But I am not sure I care.
joella
Thursday, May 11, 2006
The angelica is taking over the asylum
Oh, I feel so much better. I was in the foulest of moods at the beginning of the week and then it got to the stage where I was boring *myself*, so time to move on. I have another virtual voodoo doll in my collection, but apart from that, I'm over it.
And I'm on to the joys of spring. The garden is positively throbbing: stand in it long enough and something else bursts into life. Warm warm sun and wet wet rain, it's glorious.
Last night I made fish soup with home-grown herbs, which was followed by crumble which M made from the rhubarb which thrives by the compost bin. The night was warm, the wine was cold, we played loud Elastica and it was hard to worry about anything. Ex-housemate S joined us and we heard about her new life as a lady of leisure.
I felt a bit envious... but then went to bed and decided it was warm enough to sleep with the doors to my little balcony open. This makes my bedroom feel like a huge tent, only you don't have to walk across a field to use the toilet. You wake in the night with a chilly pillow. I am not sure why I find this so life affirming, but today I feel unsquashable.
joella
And I'm on to the joys of spring. The garden is positively throbbing: stand in it long enough and something else bursts into life. Warm warm sun and wet wet rain, it's glorious.
Last night I made fish soup with home-grown herbs, which was followed by crumble which M made from the rhubarb which thrives by the compost bin. The night was warm, the wine was cold, we played loud Elastica and it was hard to worry about anything. Ex-housemate S joined us and we heard about her new life as a lady of leisure.
I felt a bit envious... but then went to bed and decided it was warm enough to sleep with the doors to my little balcony open. This makes my bedroom feel like a huge tent, only you don't have to walk across a field to use the toilet. You wake in the night with a chilly pillow. I am not sure why I find this so life affirming, but today I feel unsquashable.
joella
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
on balance
... after careful consideration, I say (and I may delete this in the morning)
feck and arse and feck and arse and feck and arse and feck
and arse
joella
feck and arse and feck and arse and feck and arse and feck
and arse
joella
Friday, May 05, 2006
How to make your staff feel trusted, valued and generally not likely to spend the rest of the day fuming, sulking, drinking coffee and surfing the web
Do the opposite of the following:
1. Return expenses claim for £40 for train/tube tickets to London (accompanied by credit card receipt) without authorisation but with note saying 'how much is a day return to London? Seems a bit steep'. As if I either a) set train fares myself or b) might be submitting a receipt for something else and hoping no one would notice.
2. Return expenses claim mark 2 (which has been augmented by evidence of cost of peak hours Travelcard printed off from internet) with the comment "I'll authorise it this time, but next time you have to get the coach".
The coach costs £13, plus two tube journeys at £3 each, so we are talking about a difference of £20. To save my esteemed organisation this sum when travelling into London for something that starts in Farringdon at 9.30, I would need to get on a bus about an hour and a half earlier than I need to get on a train. Which is a quarter past six.
And yeah, it costs more, but the train is faster, more convenient, more reliable and (as long as you get a seat) you can work on it. Which I did. Perhaps less importantly it also features coffee (which I bought with my own money, naturally) and the advantage of not going past the 'why do I still do this every day' fence.
You are joking, I said.
No, she said.
Does our Director get the coach to London? I said.
I don't know, she said.
I bet she fucking doesn't, I said. And nor do any of the colleagues I have seen at the train station whenever I've had to go to London. And nor have I in the last six years, except once and I was late. And I'm not going to start now.
joella
1. Return expenses claim for £40 for train/tube tickets to London (accompanied by credit card receipt) without authorisation but with note saying 'how much is a day return to London? Seems a bit steep'. As if I either a) set train fares myself or b) might be submitting a receipt for something else and hoping no one would notice.
2. Return expenses claim mark 2 (which has been augmented by evidence of cost of peak hours Travelcard printed off from internet) with the comment "I'll authorise it this time, but next time you have to get the coach".
The coach costs £13, plus two tube journeys at £3 each, so we are talking about a difference of £20. To save my esteemed organisation this sum when travelling into London for something that starts in Farringdon at 9.30, I would need to get on a bus about an hour and a half earlier than I need to get on a train. Which is a quarter past six.
And yeah, it costs more, but the train is faster, more convenient, more reliable and (as long as you get a seat) you can work on it. Which I did. Perhaps less importantly it also features coffee (which I bought with my own money, naturally) and the advantage of not going past the 'why do I still do this every day' fence.
You are joking, I said.
No, she said.
Does our Director get the coach to London? I said.
I don't know, she said.
I bet she fucking doesn't, I said. And nor do any of the colleagues I have seen at the train station whenever I've had to go to London. And nor have I in the last six years, except once and I was late. And I'm not going to start now.
joella
Thursday, May 04, 2006
I love to vote
I've had a lovely day today. The sun always shines on election day.
Started off being late for work as spent far too long discussing the concept of 'family' with my not-next-of-kin-as-we-aren't-married. I cried first, so he won that one, but I got to wear the special green cardigan so we were quits.
Ticked away the moments that made up a dull day, but I did get to lie in the sun and discuss my thoughts for the future with a cool Yorkshirewoman. Felt glad that multiculturalism allows cross-Pennine bonding from time to time.
Went to plumbing. I was a bit scared, because Plumbing S is in Wales this week (long story) so I was facing an unassisted guttering/downpipe assessment. We did hers last week, so I pretty much knew what to do, but it's a lot harder when you're up a ladder on your own with no one to pick up the screws you drop or hand you the spirit level.
I swore a lot, but I did get it passed and signed off, and then I went to vote. How I love voting. I know there are places where the B *spit* N *spit* P are tippy tappying it out with non mutants, and places (the same places?) where they are sufficiently worried about electoral fraud and intimidation to assign police officers to polling stations, but East Oxford is neither kind of place.
Here you roll up to a sports hall which smells of feet and has badly photocopied signs directing you in. The ballot box is balanced on some discarded gymnastics equipment, there are two women with long plaits dishing out the ballot papers and two rickety booths providing near zero privacy. But we are mostly voting Green here, so what's to hide?
The queue featured tall skinny Africans, a gay Scottish couple and various members of an Asian family. I gave thanks as always a) to the general pantheon for creating such a splendidly British example of understated representative democracy and b) to the suffragettes for making sure I could take part in it.
joella
Started off being late for work as spent far too long discussing the concept of 'family' with my not-next-of-kin-as-we-aren't-married. I cried first, so he won that one, but I got to wear the special green cardigan so we were quits.
Ticked away the moments that made up a dull day, but I did get to lie in the sun and discuss my thoughts for the future with a cool Yorkshirewoman. Felt glad that multiculturalism allows cross-Pennine bonding from time to time.
Went to plumbing. I was a bit scared, because Plumbing S is in Wales this week (long story) so I was facing an unassisted guttering/downpipe assessment. We did hers last week, so I pretty much knew what to do, but it's a lot harder when you're up a ladder on your own with no one to pick up the screws you drop or hand you the spirit level.
I swore a lot, but I did get it passed and signed off, and then I went to vote. How I love voting. I know there are places where the B *spit* N *spit* P are tippy tappying it out with non mutants, and places (the same places?) where they are sufficiently worried about electoral fraud and intimidation to assign police officers to polling stations, but East Oxford is neither kind of place.
Here you roll up to a sports hall which smells of feet and has badly photocopied signs directing you in. The ballot box is balanced on some discarded gymnastics equipment, there are two women with long plaits dishing out the ballot papers and two rickety booths providing near zero privacy. But we are mostly voting Green here, so what's to hide?
The queue featured tall skinny Africans, a gay Scottish couple and various members of an Asian family. I gave thanks as always a) to the general pantheon for creating such a splendidly British example of understated representative democracy and b) to the suffragettes for making sure I could take part in it.
joella
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
Dear Great British Public
Please do not vote for the BNP. They look like used car salesmen, they have tippy tappy bits on their shoes and they are evil incarnate.
joella
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