work, work, work

Foo. Don't it just get in the way of life? Not to mention sleep, fun or blogs even.

In my 'spare' time - driving from client's office to [not client's] bed, I've been ranting with e2save. Me and a chunk of the population if my google searches and protracted 'your call is important to us but unfortunately we can't bring ourselves to give a toss' on hold moments are anything to go by.

I won't bore you with the details. Honestly, I've relayed the story now to more than 12 e2save customer services personnel already and they don't find it interesting so you won't.

It's not all been in vain though. Reading through pages of forum gripes (I know how to have a good time) someone usefully reminded me about: www.saynoto0870.co.uk

It's probably old news to youse, but I'd forgotten about it and part of my rant to e2save was that I was wasting 50p per minute on their bastard line waiting for them not to help me.

www.saynoto0870.co.uk usefully lists well known companies' geographical numbers so you only pay standard call charges. Tested out e2save's customer services number today and the phone was answered immediately. None of that 'press 1 to feel slightly annoyed', 'press 2 to feel your veins constrict' business. Fab.

So there. Not very interesting if you're a Work From The Office type (Woofters for short) but hey. I've blogged at least.

And now I bet you're wishing I hadna bothered ...

hello. i'm your daughter.

I received an urgent email last week advising me that my daughter had fallen at school and was now at the hospital. I wasn't to panic, as she wasn't seriously hurt, but could I please contact the school asap to confirm receipt of the message and when I'd be able to get to the hospital.

I'll admit that despite their request, I was a little spooked. I rang, naturally, asap, but I was a bit annoyed they hadn't taken the initiative to call me themselves rather than resort to email.

Never mind. The more important point to get across was that I don't have a daughter, and it was obviously a case of mistaken identity, so they might want to try contacting the girl's (real) mother by a different and perhaps more direct method.

It's amazing what an email address can get you nowadays.

I almost asked whether she was a nice, hardworking attractive child because that's what I'd hope my daughter was, but decided them finding the real mother was probably more pressing.

small steps

I'm not particularly green. Some might say I'm not green at all. Depends on your outlook. Pa calls me an ecoterrorist. Ma calls me funny but that's a catch-all. Zelda says I'm part of the throwaway-selfish-couldn't-care-less society. Tallulah says I'm proper PC. Wharrever.

But I am making small changes in a bid to be a bit more aware about the environment and my personal impact on it.

So far, it's a short list:

I don't shop at Tesco's anymore. Nuh uh. Not even if they're offering free wine and chocolate by the trolleyload (although that is very tempting...). I still shop in supermarkets - just not Tesco's. I'm not happy with them wiping out the competition - especially local grocers - in threatening, intimidating fashion. Nor do I like the fact that the only reason they can sell stuff so cheap is because they're exploiting farmers, suppliers and manufacturers in worse ways than most other supermarkets. I hate Tesco's. I hate having to walk through 75 aisles of clothes and fridges and mobile phones to get to the fruit and veg. I'm not saying other supermarkets are perfect - they just aren't as bad. It's a flawed argument I know.

I'm buying more UK produce either from the local farm shops or the supermarket. Foreign fruit (urp) still gets in my shopping basket (mmm bananas) but they're at least fairtrade now. Oh yeh and taking my own bags to put them in. But purlease will someone design some decent shopping bags. I'm too young (really I am) for a trolley with wheels - although they do have their benefits - and I'm just not one for wicker baskets. Honestly.

I've stopped bandying bleach about my house with gay abandon. There's still a place for some chemicals (until I learn berrer) but I have discovered the joys of lemon juice and white vinegar and all such housewifely tips shared by those in the know. Chemically-free or ethically made applies to some - not all - other consumables.

I walk, cycle and/or go by public transport more than I ever did and instead of jumping in the car and shooting off on those mini, often unnecessary trips, I just don't go out. I call this my bit for the planet - others call it bloody unsociable.

We're all low energy - as are our lightbulbs, extra reuse/recycling friendly and less water wasting than we were (wash? why?). Sadly the neighbours won't let us install a wind turbine on their roof though. Miserable sods.

Lahouha has started a vegetable patch. Given our tiny garden, it's not much, but houses our first batch of cut-n-come-again salad leaves (thanks Carol) so that we no longer have to buy green, chlorinated snot-in-a-bag. Least that's the idea. I'm banned from harvesting until the end of May though, so meantime we're left staring and salivating.

Most revelationary though is truly giving proper thought to the 'do I need it?' argument when shopping. Ma trained me well in the 'oooh! look! bargain! buy!' mode of purchasing but I've had it. More is not good. And it just results in stuff I don't really want/need/like cluttering up the home. Living with Lahouha for five years has curbed a lot of this by default (she be an accountant) but I'm now a Believer In My Own Right. It helps I hate clutter too. The charity shops might experience a slight dip in sales but it's probably easier for me to give them £5 straight out than go through the whole waste-of (time/materials/effort) process and further line the pockets of millionaires and big corporations in the first place.

Am doing other helpful stuff too but I've bored us enough for now. It leads me in nicely to saying, have you been here? And if not, please do. Every little helps *GASP* Must work on that oh-so-annoying habit of using company's straplines in every day sentences. Just do it. But really. Sign up. Let your fingers do the walking. Because I'm worth it. Sigh. Not laughing.

As I'm babbling on about such eco stuff, reminds me how I managed to miss the entire LiveEarth ticket/ballot thing. And I so wanted to go. Failed with Live8, locked away for LiveAid, this was my chance to get LiveSomething. But no. Brain fell out during that five day period and the moment's gone. Worse still my Bro (he of 'I go to 52 concerts a year just because I can' fame, he who bores the arse off all of us by relaying which concert he's going next and how expensive tickets for said concert cost him and how long buying said tickets took him and are you sure you don't want to buy one of my £100 Police tickets that I sat online for seven hours to get blah blah blah), HE got bloody tickets to LiveEarth. Did he do his usual ringing round thing, saying I've just texted for LiveEarth tickets? Did he buffalo. Did he remind me of said concert before the deadline like he does even when I say 'BUT I DON'T LIKE GENESIS' for the fiftieth time? No.

Bastard.

AND he wants to know if he can stay at ours that weekend.

I'm not sulking. Not much.

But we might go camping that weekend. And I might forget to leave the keys out for him.

frying pan : fire

I'm sick of my job. correction: i'm sick of the corporate life, the mundane projects about global desktop services and data centre management and network server upgrades. Not to mention the petty bitchin' over the intricate minutiae - like what colour the binders are - when a million pound bid is at risk of going tits up because no one is writing the damn content nor giving a toss that the customer has very specific requirements and we're cut and pasting 'yeh, yeh, we're shit hot at everything' type blurb in from another Equally Vague Proposal. Not to mention that Very Important Prick One is (not so secretly) fighting with VIP Two over who's done what because commission is at stake and VIP1 refuses to take any less than a £100k bonus when he did 3 minutes more work than him anyways. And stuff like that.

My glasses aren't rosetinted. I'm sure in every job (as in life) there is, by law, an average of 3 arseholes in every day who will try your patience to the nth degree. I'm just bored of this collective. After 17 years in IT World (imagine PC World but with bigger egos) it's time for a change.

So after years of umming and ahhing combined with random bits of volunteer work and lots of investigating, I've applied for a part time job in Social Services. One that's even going to pay me to go back to school and get me some relevant qualifications 'n all.

Scary. Exciting.

bloggery bloggocks

I first decided to write a blog to try and be funny. That idea was short lived. Trying to be funny is as appealing as trying to be clever/young/wise. It doesn't work. Y'are what y'are and all.

I then thought I'd write about stuff that had happened in my life. I abandoned that idea before I started. I'm too sceptical about who might find it, read it, recognise it, misuse it. Paranoid with a capital V, me. Besides, what good would it do? It might (just might) make for interesting reading but so what? Move on. Older and wider.

So it's become a catalogue of random ramblings. There are moments when I worry about that too. No structure. No logic. Jeez. Must-stop-overanalysing. That said, I'm grateful for my shred of forethought. I wish more of my extended family members had it.

My mum's sister has a blog. She uses it like a diary. She chose to give the URL to my mum, who passed it on to me as she isn't sure why anyone would want to write a blog let alone read one.

So I checked it out.

She, *Babs* has published her real name, her address, the names of her children AND the grandchildren.

She also labours on about how she is so poor. And so in need of a man. Maybe a man with money, she ponders. No amount of lottery tickets nor sessions of bingo are working - she's still poor. Too poor sometimes to buy food for her or the dog.

She talks of her neighbours (using their real names). Shares their problems. And faults. She slags off anyone who isn't english 'born and bred' - whatever that means. And have I mentioned how poor she is? And in need of a nice man? According to *Babs* no amount of chatting online gets her a rich, decent, honest, nice man. Weird.

The shit hit the proverbial fan last month. For reasons unbeknown to any of us* - Mum decided to check out *Bab's* blog. Printed out the whole lot (she's not so tech savvy) and read it one weekend. Around about the same time *Babs* chose to slag off my mum.

Oh dear.

You can imagine what's go on since. Heated exchanges, email wars, girly spats, detailed inventories of 'what I've done for you' and 'what you've done for me (= nothing)'. *Babs* pulled her blog at the height of the fallout and they've sulked ever since.

I notice *Babs* is back online and reverting to type. Mum thinks the blog has gone for good and I can't bring myself to tell her otherwise.

The latest entries reveal *Babs* is still mad at Mum. She's also enlisted the support of their Dad - ("incase [Mum] got to him first and twisted the story...") and so it goes on ... I dread to think how this latest stuff will make Mum feel - petty as it is.

Mum and *Babs* have been warring most of their lives. Me and my brother grew up knowing Mum's family were a bit difficult. Her parents never seemed to like their 3 children - certainly never at the same time - choosing to play them off against one other. Admirable divide and conquer tactics. Sadly, all Mum has ever wanted was to be a part of a happy family. To love and be loved.

It's a sorry state of affairs. They're both lonely and should be supporting one another. Whatever I think of *Babs* is immaterial - I don't think she meant anything by her comments. She's just careless with her tongue/typing and didn't think. They've been on good terms for some years now - but this latest debacle has decimated their fragile relationship. Given that they're as stubborn as each other they seem unable to work it out - instead opting to continue with the attack, attack, attack approach. Products-of-their-parents.

Worrawaste. It's kinda why I firmly believe that while family may be precious, we can't all expect to have the perfect family. Instead we should find a way of loving them (from a distance if necessary) if it doesn't come naturally, and otherwise invest time in good friends who really can be the family we make ourselves ...

*I told my brother all about *Babs* blog and the fall out - but in true brotherly style he quickly stuck his hands in his ears, shook his head from side-to-side, and started chanting 'No-no-no-no-no!'. I used to think he was an arse. I'm starting to think he's quite savvy.

all rise

A sunny, bright, four day weekend.
How rare is that?

This one saw us pack in many a pleasurable activity. Some of which, I'm prepared to share. First there was a small run. We're only good for 3 mile efforts right now. Our aim is not the Marathon, no, but a 10K in September. We also dusted off cobwebs off our bikes and went for a short jaunt along the Thames towpath. Nice.

Not satisfied with the amount of oxygen in our lungs, and lactic acid in our muscles, we packed in two 10 mile+ walks around the South Downs too.

Now I'm the first to admit that in my advancing years I am liking nothing more - well ok, that's a rather large exaggeration - I am liking quite a lot - a lovely long walk in the countryside - in good weather - with my girlfriend. It might not be cool nor glam, extreme or exciting but I don't care. I spent most of my teenage years moaning at what a pointless, pointless thing 'walking' was in the face of any suggestion from my parents. So yes, they do point and laugh when I say we went for a walk. But then my parents point and laugh at me anyway, so that's hardly news.

Anyway, anyway, anyway, advancing years, walking ... Both our walks - because of their length - required a comfort break. The ideal comfort break is a pub offering pints of chilled refreshment, but in their regular absence midway a ramble, a nice tree behind which I can grab a quick pee has become a close second. I now comprehend fully my Nanna's advice 'never pass up an opportunity to pee'.

And this is what I did, and do on more frequent occasion. But it ain't easy, as all you laydees will know. Peeing straight? Hell I can't even see straight. *Oh dear, she's resorting to old lame jokes too. It's her age. 36 you know.*

So I was intrigued when I spotted a review on this piece of equipment today:



I have learnt that the 'Shewee' is a funnel, especially shaped to fit the female anatomy with a spout to pour the urine away or into a 'suitable container' (a half drunk coke can?). Apparently "Shewee doesn't just offer equality with men, but is a real and revolutionary device which will change women's lives." Hmm. On the upside they are only £5 a pop (or should that be pee?), although gift wrapping is an extra £1. Curiously, the flexible 15cm outlet pipe accessory is a mere £1 more. And if you want more than 15cm, you only need ask. *Thinks* What is the distance from my bed to the toilet?

Thing is, I can't imagine using one. The prospect of an upstanding pee (whilst fully-clothed) is most appealing. But where does one pop a plastic pee-ridden penis when one has finished? And yes, I would want to use it more than once, else my upstanding peeing is going to have mammoth consequences for the environment. OK, so supposing I have brought a useful plastic bag to pop it in, what about the ever present fear of it popping out at a most opportune moment? "Oh pardon me, I've just dropped my Pee Penis."

Hmm. So anyway. I think I'll continue to squat and focus for now. Maybe I'll put it on my Christmas List.

Meantime, have you seen the Geograph British Isles project? It's an archive of pictures for every grid square in Britain. It's free to contribute and mildly compelling to browse around areas you know. I'm off to photograph my front door. And my granny. She's pretty stagnant in one grid square these days... god rest her soul.

kwalitee

I posted an ad last week on behalf of a client looking for freelance writers. It was the usual thing ... talented copywriter needed - must have experience of writing for the web - please supply full details together with relevant samples and an indication of rates.

This is my favourite response to date. I provide it here below in full:

"we are proffestinall on this we give u ur project on be time"

Should I hang on and wait for more replies or choose this stunner to be part of our team?

state of mind, state of mind

I've always believed age is just a number and you shouldn't stress about it.

I am 36 years and 1 day old. Less than 2 hours into the first working day of the week I've had to complete a form asking for my age group and it appears I've crossed into the next box.

I am now officially in the 36-40 age bracket.
Eww.

Still, state of mind.

Yesterday, in response to Lahouha's excited 'you're 36, you're 36' exclamations (as I was still eeking out vital beauty-countering-ageing sleep) I explained how that still left me in my mid thirties using the logic: 30-33 = early thirties, 34-36 = mid thirties and 37-39 = late thirties.

Then a (former) friend sent me a 'Happy 40th' text from the safety of the next county. This was a helpful reminder as to why I don't have many younger friends.

Still, state of mind, state of mind.

The rest of the day passed in a touching amount of gleeful calls and texts from other mates - all quick to wish me happy birthday. I thought these were warm gestures of friendship but Lahouha suggested this was because they were pleased to see me pile on another year.

You'd think I was some kind of phenomenonemon. Don't they realise I'm never gonna catch them up?

I've also got Lahouha's daily 'you're the same age as me' glee to contend with for another 49 days until I can finally pummell her head bright and early screaming 'you're 37, you're 37' ...

My state of mind is exhausted.

It must be old age.

(And yes, that does mean I was one hell of an april fool's gag for my mother 36 years ago.)