Tuesday, 6 July 2010
Nuclear Picnic Anyone?
I've just spent an afternoon in an old people's home, helping my mother move into their new premises. While we waited for her belongings to catch up (which they didn't) things became surreal. I was reading celebrity cellulite articles to her to try to dispel her anxiety about the whereabouts of her toothbrush and nightie. 'Did Alex really want to marry Jordan?' we wondered together. This lead me to ask her about her own long marriage to my father. What were the happiest times?
The reply sounded like something straight out of The Simpsons. 'Oh, I most enjoyed visiting the nuclear power stations for picnics. We used to go to all of them you know.'
I marveled at how a picnic at a nuclear power station could possibly rank as the high point of anyone's marriage, while gazing pointlessly at Posh's extensions ('she wouldn't leave my salon looking like that' - angry hairdresser to the WAGs).
'What are meal times like?' I asked, wondering whether a gastric band was really a good idea. I was regaled with a story detailing surprising aggression from a ninety year old with a stick baggying the adjacent dining chair for his wife. One brave gent (new kid on the block) had foolishly tried to sit in the chair and had faced the aforementioned walking stick being brandished menacingly from the arthritic oldie. The 'victim' had to resort to a particularly steady stare to dispel the attack. My mother was obviously impressed by the stand off and said it would have 'looked very good in a film' - I tried quite hard to imagine who would be interested in a film about old people arguing over the care home seating plan, but failed to think of a suitable market audience. I looked up from 'has Christine Bleakley had cosmetic surgery?' and asked whether my mother was 'sweet' on the gentleman with the dynamic 'look'. I noticed her blush and decided I didn't want to know any more and went back to 'boob jobs of the stars'.
There seemed to be an awful lot of staff helping to create total chaos in the home, with huge pieces of furniture being lugged into the one small lift by hefty removal men, who always had to wait for someone on a Zimmer frame to get out first. It was the slowest way you could possibly move into anywhere. I noticed an electric keyboard had taken up position in the lounge and resisted the urge to bash out some blues to the assembled hoardes of bored oldies. I later regretted this restraint when a helper started launching into 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' - all verses - several times.
I was sympathising with an elderly inmate about being further away from the sea, and nearly died of embarrassment when she said she was a volunteer. I made a mental note that if I was ever a volunteer in an old people's home, I would avoid a blue rinse and go for dreadlocks. Maybe even blue dreadlocks, just to be sure.
The reply sounded like something straight out of The Simpsons. 'Oh, I most enjoyed visiting the nuclear power stations for picnics. We used to go to all of them you know.'
I marveled at how a picnic at a nuclear power station could possibly rank as the high point of anyone's marriage, while gazing pointlessly at Posh's extensions ('she wouldn't leave my salon looking like that' - angry hairdresser to the WAGs).
'What are meal times like?' I asked, wondering whether a gastric band was really a good idea. I was regaled with a story detailing surprising aggression from a ninety year old with a stick baggying the adjacent dining chair for his wife. One brave gent (new kid on the block) had foolishly tried to sit in the chair and had faced the aforementioned walking stick being brandished menacingly from the arthritic oldie. The 'victim' had to resort to a particularly steady stare to dispel the attack. My mother was obviously impressed by the stand off and said it would have 'looked very good in a film' - I tried quite hard to imagine who would be interested in a film about old people arguing over the care home seating plan, but failed to think of a suitable market audience. I looked up from 'has Christine Bleakley had cosmetic surgery?' and asked whether my mother was 'sweet' on the gentleman with the dynamic 'look'. I noticed her blush and decided I didn't want to know any more and went back to 'boob jobs of the stars'.
There seemed to be an awful lot of staff helping to create total chaos in the home, with huge pieces of furniture being lugged into the one small lift by hefty removal men, who always had to wait for someone on a Zimmer frame to get out first. It was the slowest way you could possibly move into anywhere. I noticed an electric keyboard had taken up position in the lounge and resisted the urge to bash out some blues to the assembled hoardes of bored oldies. I later regretted this restraint when a helper started launching into 'All Things Bright and Beautiful' - all verses - several times.
I was sympathising with an elderly inmate about being further away from the sea, and nearly died of embarrassment when she said she was a volunteer. I made a mental note that if I was ever a volunteer in an old people's home, I would avoid a blue rinse and go for dreadlocks. Maybe even blue dreadlocks, just to be sure.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
The P***** Off-ice
The toys in the back pages of the mail order catalogue that I used to study intently as a child always included a toy post office. It seemed to be the ultimate in happiness. I visualised myself tearing off rows of stamps and putting plastic change in the plastic till.
As we all know, life can be cruel, and nothing demonstrates this more harshly than the experience of the real life post office.
As most of the sub-branches have closed, and the main post offices no longer inhabit grand buildings with large, free flowing spaces, you now have to queue for about 40 minutes crammed between racks of party poppers and Doritos in the back of a newsagent. I am going abroad soon and had to send off a visa application. With a grim heart I headed for the local Post Office. True to form, my lunch hour ticked away while I stared despondently at tired looking jiffy bags. When I eventually made it to the front of the queue the ‘helpful’ assistant tried to sell me a polythene bag for my passport for £5. ‘No’ I said firmly, ‘I just want a recorded delivery stamp on the envelope and the return envelope inside’. He tried again to flog me the bag. ‘No’, I said more firmly and held what I hoped was quite an effective Paddington Hard Stare. He relented and did as I asked and charged me £2.35, which seemed a better deal..
Off I went, pleased everything was sorted and relieved I wouldn't have to step inside one of those places again anytime soon.
Never be too pleased with yourself I realised later in the week when the visa office rang to say they didn’t take cheques, only postal orders. I didn’t even know you could still get postal orders. With heavier heart I made it to a different main branch PO and queued again. This queue was more edgy, I think it was the metal struts forcing us into the grim zig zag queue that had the effect of making you feel like cattle being herded into the slaughterhouse that didn’t help. The metal bound corners proved tricky for women to negotiate with pushchairs, and a chap who looked like his last qualification was an ASBO swore at a mate on his mobile phone, using plentiful words that the women in pushchairs probably didn’t want their children to hear. There were about twelve counters in the post office. Three were used for an imaginative display of home made toys. I didn’t hold out much hope for those being opened up to relieve the queue any time soon. The other counters were manned by three staff, as spread out as possible. One chap on the bureau de change counter was hidden behind a pillar, and when he needed to call the next customer, had to walk round the back of the counters to attract our attention. Customers in the queue helped each other recognise when a teller became available, and we all waited less and less patiently while women untangled buggy wheels from each other and soothed children that were nearly catapulted out of their seats when the wheels snagged on the metal restraining bars holding the angry hoarde back.
I had low blood sugar, and no patience at all left by the time the man from the bureau de change walked round the pillar again. ‘I want a £32 postal order please’, I muttered through clenched teeth. When he told me that would be £35 I could feel my blood pressure rising. I went to put my card in his little money sucking machine. ‘We can’t take the card’ he said helpfully, ‘too much fraud around’.
This is a card I have used in most of the shops in the town and never had any problem. It is also a card that uses a bank that operates via the post office. ‘You can use it to withdraw money first, and then give me the cash for the postal order’ he said helpfully. I realised this was why the queue was so long, every single transaction had to be done the most labourious way possible. The man behind the counter was sitting back with a self satisfied grin. I didn’t like his attitude, but then I didn’t like anything anymore.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked, the question laced with acid.
‘Mike’ he said and glared at me challengingly.
‘Do you have a surname?’ I asked, struggling to sound rational.
‘I don’t have to give you that’ he said, wearing an expression familiar to me from the chap with the ASBO back in the queue.
‘What is your manager’s name then?’ I asked as sweat began to break on my brow and I started to wonder whether I needed anger management classes.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong’ said 'Mike', ‘it’s the Post Office’.
He didn’t help at this point by sitting back, delaying everything even more. Trembling, I reached into my bag and thankfully found the money in cash.
‘Who do you want it paid to?’ he asked, scowling at me.
‘The Syrian Embassy please’. He looked confused for a moment, and then asked,
‘C-I -…..?’.
‘No, not C, try S’ I said helpfully.
‘C?’ he went again as his finger hovered uncertainly over the keyboard and the furrows on his brow deepened.
It was lucky there was armoured glass between us at this point, as I almost spat out, ‘S_Y_R_I_A_N’. I was aware of the eyes of all the people in the queue boring holes into the back of my head.
I wondered why the post office employed people to work on the bureau de change counter who couldn't spell the countries of the world.
It all went on far too long, and I was probably out of order. I had a stab of sympathy for the chap as I left, it can’t be any fun dealing with frustrated customers all day.
As I stepped outside, there was a whooshing noise as my childhood dream of post office happiness evaporated.
As we all know, life can be cruel, and nothing demonstrates this more harshly than the experience of the real life post office.
As most of the sub-branches have closed, and the main post offices no longer inhabit grand buildings with large, free flowing spaces, you now have to queue for about 40 minutes crammed between racks of party poppers and Doritos in the back of a newsagent. I am going abroad soon and had to send off a visa application. With a grim heart I headed for the local Post Office. True to form, my lunch hour ticked away while I stared despondently at tired looking jiffy bags. When I eventually made it to the front of the queue the ‘helpful’ assistant tried to sell me a polythene bag for my passport for £5. ‘No’ I said firmly, ‘I just want a recorded delivery stamp on the envelope and the return envelope inside’. He tried again to flog me the bag. ‘No’, I said more firmly and held what I hoped was quite an effective Paddington Hard Stare. He relented and did as I asked and charged me £2.35, which seemed a better deal..
Off I went, pleased everything was sorted and relieved I wouldn't have to step inside one of those places again anytime soon.
Never be too pleased with yourself I realised later in the week when the visa office rang to say they didn’t take cheques, only postal orders. I didn’t even know you could still get postal orders. With heavier heart I made it to a different main branch PO and queued again. This queue was more edgy, I think it was the metal struts forcing us into the grim zig zag queue that had the effect of making you feel like cattle being herded into the slaughterhouse that didn’t help. The metal bound corners proved tricky for women to negotiate with pushchairs, and a chap who looked like his last qualification was an ASBO swore at a mate on his mobile phone, using plentiful words that the women in pushchairs probably didn’t want their children to hear. There were about twelve counters in the post office. Three were used for an imaginative display of home made toys. I didn’t hold out much hope for those being opened up to relieve the queue any time soon. The other counters were manned by three staff, as spread out as possible. One chap on the bureau de change counter was hidden behind a pillar, and when he needed to call the next customer, had to walk round the back of the counters to attract our attention. Customers in the queue helped each other recognise when a teller became available, and we all waited less and less patiently while women untangled buggy wheels from each other and soothed children that were nearly catapulted out of their seats when the wheels snagged on the metal restraining bars holding the angry hoarde back.
I had low blood sugar, and no patience at all left by the time the man from the bureau de change walked round the pillar again. ‘I want a £32 postal order please’, I muttered through clenched teeth. When he told me that would be £35 I could feel my blood pressure rising. I went to put my card in his little money sucking machine. ‘We can’t take the card’ he said helpfully, ‘too much fraud around’.
This is a card I have used in most of the shops in the town and never had any problem. It is also a card that uses a bank that operates via the post office. ‘You can use it to withdraw money first, and then give me the cash for the postal order’ he said helpfully. I realised this was why the queue was so long, every single transaction had to be done the most labourious way possible. The man behind the counter was sitting back with a self satisfied grin. I didn’t like his attitude, but then I didn’t like anything anymore.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked, the question laced with acid.
‘Mike’ he said and glared at me challengingly.
‘Do you have a surname?’ I asked, struggling to sound rational.
‘I don’t have to give you that’ he said, wearing an expression familiar to me from the chap with the ASBO back in the queue.
‘What is your manager’s name then?’ I asked as sweat began to break on my brow and I started to wonder whether I needed anger management classes.
‘I haven’t done anything wrong’ said 'Mike', ‘it’s the Post Office’.
He didn’t help at this point by sitting back, delaying everything even more. Trembling, I reached into my bag and thankfully found the money in cash.
‘Who do you want it paid to?’ he asked, scowling at me.
‘The Syrian Embassy please’. He looked confused for a moment, and then asked,
‘C-I -…..?’.
‘No, not C, try S’ I said helpfully.
‘C?’ he went again as his finger hovered uncertainly over the keyboard and the furrows on his brow deepened.
It was lucky there was armoured glass between us at this point, as I almost spat out, ‘S_Y_R_I_A_N’. I was aware of the eyes of all the people in the queue boring holes into the back of my head.
I wondered why the post office employed people to work on the bureau de change counter who couldn't spell the countries of the world.
It all went on far too long, and I was probably out of order. I had a stab of sympathy for the chap as I left, it can’t be any fun dealing with frustrated customers all day.
As I stepped outside, there was a whooshing noise as my childhood dream of post office happiness evaporated.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Looking behind the Door
I've always wanted to be one of those really cool people who can sit at a piano and improvise away for ages with lovely, bluesy stuff. I've been trying to do this for about thirty years, and as soon as anyone says anything remotely like, 'ad lib around E flat' my fingers seize up and I can't do anything at all. I even attended a jazz piano course that made a whooshing noise as it went right over my head - how was I supposed to know what an 'open sus 14' was? I had sadly considered blues style piano was something I really just wasn't capable of, until this weekend.
I was staying at a friend's house and having a go on her rather wonderful piano. She had said something (mildly stinging) about my limited repertoire, which made me decide to try and play different stuff for a change. I was just twiddling around and suddenly, there I was, doodling on the ivories in BLUESY style. Everything was starting to make sense, 'arpeggio with a diminished seventh' I found myself thinking, 'improvise around C, E flat, F sharp and G' I remembered the piano teacher saying (with the spiteful chaser that it was so easy anyone could do it), 'pentatonic scale - just keep to the black notes' my son once said.
And there they were, in front of me, my fingers skipping around and the noise that was coming out SOUNDED PRETTY GOOD. Even my friend came in and said how good it was. 'Me', I thought, 'Me, playing blues'.
It was as if a very large and creaky door (like the seriously huge ones in the British Museum) had finally opened and some sunlight was shining through the gap.
It was fun. It was very fun indeed.
I was staying at a friend's house and having a go on her rather wonderful piano. She had said something (mildly stinging) about my limited repertoire, which made me decide to try and play different stuff for a change. I was just twiddling around and suddenly, there I was, doodling on the ivories in BLUESY style. Everything was starting to make sense, 'arpeggio with a diminished seventh' I found myself thinking, 'improvise around C, E flat, F sharp and G' I remembered the piano teacher saying (with the spiteful chaser that it was so easy anyone could do it), 'pentatonic scale - just keep to the black notes' my son once said.
And there they were, in front of me, my fingers skipping around and the noise that was coming out SOUNDED PRETTY GOOD. Even my friend came in and said how good it was. 'Me', I thought, 'Me, playing blues'.
It was as if a very large and creaky door (like the seriously huge ones in the British Museum) had finally opened and some sunlight was shining through the gap.
It was fun. It was very fun indeed.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Is this the right platform?
You might be sitting at your computer, but really you are on Hampton Wick Station. I wonder whether the right train is coming yet?
Ah, here comes the train now.
Have a good journey!
|
Ah, here comes the train now.
|
Have a good journey!
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
Waiting for this Madness to Pass
I've been feeling very happy lately. I felt so happy, and it felt so unusual, I actually caught myself wondering whether I was in fact going mad. I did meet someone in the lift (unusually I knew them already) and he agreed he too was unfashionably happy. We had a very jolly conversation about the wonders of waking up (good news, means you're alive), being free, not being in pain and having a job (food and shelter as add on extras). It was an eight floor conversation. It beat the three floor conversation I had with a stranger in the morning. He said he didn't like the rain. I said I didn't like the sun, and then heard myself explaining this was because I was, in fact, a vampire and dissolved in sunshine. Unsurprisingly, he didn't seem to want to talk to me after this.
You can see why I might think I'm going mad.
I was more relieved than usual when the woman who spends all her time sitting on top of the lifts announced the doors were opening.
******
They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa, They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa. To the happy home. With trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!!
You can see why I might think I'm going mad.
I was more relieved than usual when the woman who spends all her time sitting on top of the lifts announced the doors were opening.
******
They're coming to take me away, ha-haaa, They're coming to take me away, ho-ho, hee-hee, ha-haaa. To the happy home. With trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're coming to take me away, ha-haaa!!!
Saturday, 27 March 2010
The Desk Pillow
Why hasn't anyone invented the desk pillow yet? A fluffy confection of goose feather that fits neatly over your keyboard. It could include a rubber dribble resevoir to avoid any embarrassing dampness clogging up the 'f' and the 'g'. The base of your computer monitor would be adapted to have little concertina arms fitted to it. These would have boxing gloves on the ends. As your head lowered onto the keyboard one boxing glove would ping out to puff up the edges of the pillow, the other to pat you on the head while the computer murmured soothing 'there-there's . A special antenna would have to be fitted to the top of the monitor to react to a previously inserted microchip (situated in the position of your choosing about Major Paperclip's person) so that as he approached, the concertina arms would whisk the pillow away and re-arrange your head in the upright position. The screen would automatically show the latest comparative performance indicator spreadsheet, which would explain your bewildered expression to everyone present. You might need special add-on features, such as the velcro wrist band to fasten your hand to the mouse mat, so you are not rudely awakened by 'arm slip'. If anyone asks, you have the choice of wearing a pained expression and muttering 'RSI', or of wearing a secretive expression and starting a discussion on 'interesting hobbies'.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
The Power of the Guinea Pig
I was heartened to see a very large banner hanging on a lamp-post outside a pet mega-market this morning. It featured a handsome close-up photograph of a guinea pig, doing what guinea-pigs do best - looking philosophical. He was obviously contemplating how contrary to the evidence of our senses, the belief in plurality and change is mistaken, and in particular that motion is nothing but an illusion.
You might wonder how I know that. It was all in the expression.
The far away look in the eyes.
Serve de-skinned and fried in a light crumb coating.
NB: While writing this I came across a recipe for Rottweiler and sweet potato. Do Waitrose sell Rottweiler steaks yet?
You might wonder how I know that. It was all in the expression.
The far away look in the eyes.
Either that or he was just considering whether or not to eat the bouquet of daisies that the photographer had employed to keep him in place.
They eat guinea-pigs in Ecuador, so my friends, I think it's time to start the siege.
They eat guinea-pigs in Ecuador, so my friends, I think it's time to start the siege.
Serve de-skinned and fried in a light crumb coating.
NB: While writing this I came across a recipe for Rottweiler and sweet potato. Do Waitrose sell Rottweiler steaks yet?
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Look Busy, Jesus is Coming
I was driving home and, having managed to bludgeon the window motor into life, both windows were open letting gusts of spring air rush around. I indulged in a little daydream, imagining the Skip was in fact a BMW Z5. My long, blonde hair was flowing out in the slipstream, my beauty dazzling male admirers who stopped to watch this amazing and obviously successful woman cruise down the street. They held the backs of their hands up to shield their eyes as, in slow motion, I smiled a diamond, sparkling smile from under my Ray Ban Wayfarers.
Then the lights changed.
As I drove I reflected on how it had been another heavy day at work, watching senior managers wrestle with paper planes in order to learn how to improve efficiency while building a Toyota Corolla. An initiative that I suspected had Major Paperclip written all over it. There had also been a minor skirmish over posters in the ecumenical chapel. 'My God!' the caller proclaimed, 'He pulled them all down'. I felt upset at having missed God doing his thing on our premises. Perhaps he really wanted to build a Toyota. They do last a long time.
Me, I'm happy in my Skip.
Then the lights changed.
As I drove I reflected on how it had been another heavy day at work, watching senior managers wrestle with paper planes in order to learn how to improve efficiency while building a Toyota Corolla. An initiative that I suspected had Major Paperclip written all over it. There had also been a minor skirmish over posters in the ecumenical chapel. 'My God!' the caller proclaimed, 'He pulled them all down'. I felt upset at having missed God doing his thing on our premises. Perhaps he really wanted to build a Toyota. They do last a long time.
Me, I'm happy in my Skip.
Friday, 19 March 2010
Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air
The thin, young man with the face so white it glowed like the moon sat cross legged on the filthy tiled floor of the stinking subway. He wore a jaunty hat on a head that sagged from trembling shoulders. His only possession, a thin jacket, scrunched up in front of him. He didn't even have the energy to beg.
A group of suits walked past, faces flushed from the excesses of the after work drink. As they walked they threw snide jeers at him - like stones at a medieval prisoner in the stocks. The limp soul didn't look up.
'Are you hungry?' I asked, stupidly. The pointy chin in the shadow of the hat moved up and down. I left something I'd just bought from a late opening supermarket. I looked back from the stairs. His face was turned towards me and I was getting a thumbs up from one fist. It was like a jolt of electricity, this connection with a stranger.
On the journey home I wondered what series of events would need to happen to lose touch so completely with the functioning world. And how many of us have been close to it at some point?
Sadder still was the realisation of the magnitude of the task facing this ashen faced lost soul to find his way back.
A group of suits walked past, faces flushed from the excesses of the after work drink. As they walked they threw snide jeers at him - like stones at a medieval prisoner in the stocks. The limp soul didn't look up.
'Are you hungry?' I asked, stupidly. The pointy chin in the shadow of the hat moved up and down. I left something I'd just bought from a late opening supermarket. I looked back from the stairs. His face was turned towards me and I was getting a thumbs up from one fist. It was like a jolt of electricity, this connection with a stranger.
On the journey home I wondered what series of events would need to happen to lose touch so completely with the functioning world. And how many of us have been close to it at some point?
Sadder still was the realisation of the magnitude of the task facing this ashen faced lost soul to find his way back.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
Major Paperclip
There was once a Major who was proud to be in charge of paperclips. His comrades carried M2 Brownings to kill as many people as possible, but he was proud to carry a heavy duty staple gun. He was smug that while his comrades murdered the opposition, innocent civilians and sometimes each other, he only killed time. Major Paperclip enjoyed reading office supplies catalogues, and running audits of stock. He noted his colleagues only read pornography and counting how many cigarettes they had left. He also noted that while they might invade countries, he only invaded other people's personal space.
One day, General Postit announced that paper cuts were required. Not little cuts, but HUGE cuts. He called Major Paperclip into his office, and pointed to a chart on the wall. The chart was bisected by a red line, plunging to the bottom right hand corner. General Postit stamped his foot, hammered the desk with a fat fist and shouted that DRASTIC reorganisation was required to save money. The General inhaled momentarily and then spat out the chaser, 'AND THERE MUST BE NO DROP IN EFFICIENCY'.
Other majors might have been overwhelmed by the size and complexity of the task. Not Major Paperclip. After many hundreds of hours of careful thought, he experienced a dawn of realisation in his early morning bath. The answer to all the organisation's problems would be to KEEP THE STATIONERY CUPBOARDS TIDY. He leapt out of the bath and ran out into the street shouting his excitement.
Major Paperclip organised meeting after meeting, with more and more complicated spreadsheets and more and more computerised presentations in sinister, darkened rooms. The meetings were so important they required that more and more of the highest grade officers attend. The higher the grade, the longer the meeting and the more numerous the officers, the happier Major Paperclip became. The meetings were like a virus, spreading through the building.
The next day in the office, wearing his smartest dress uniform, complete with sword, he held the highest tier meeting he could muster and dispatched every person present to their respective stationery cupboards to make sure they were well organised. He marched back and forth as senior officers hurriedly wrote 'biros' and 'staples - 26/6' on sticky labels and affixed them to the melamine shelving. He ran his fingers round the inside of his shiny Sam Browne and barked the occasional order about whether hole punches (being heavier than lever arch files) should be stowed lower or higher up.
While Major Paperclip was managing to keep so many staff busy checking treasury tags and C5 (window) envelope stock and General Postit admired his updated chart with the red line pointing back at the ceiling again, no one noticed the invaders approaching.
One day, General Postit announced that paper cuts were required. Not little cuts, but HUGE cuts. He called Major Paperclip into his office, and pointed to a chart on the wall. The chart was bisected by a red line, plunging to the bottom right hand corner. General Postit stamped his foot, hammered the desk with a fat fist and shouted that DRASTIC reorganisation was required to save money. The General inhaled momentarily and then spat out the chaser, 'AND THERE MUST BE NO DROP IN EFFICIENCY'.
Other majors might have been overwhelmed by the size and complexity of the task. Not Major Paperclip. After many hundreds of hours of careful thought, he experienced a dawn of realisation in his early morning bath. The answer to all the organisation's problems would be to KEEP THE STATIONERY CUPBOARDS TIDY. He leapt out of the bath and ran out into the street shouting his excitement.
Major Paperclip organised meeting after meeting, with more and more complicated spreadsheets and more and more computerised presentations in sinister, darkened rooms. The meetings were so important they required that more and more of the highest grade officers attend. The higher the grade, the longer the meeting and the more numerous the officers, the happier Major Paperclip became. The meetings were like a virus, spreading through the building.
The next day in the office, wearing his smartest dress uniform, complete with sword, he held the highest tier meeting he could muster and dispatched every person present to their respective stationery cupboards to make sure they were well organised. He marched back and forth as senior officers hurriedly wrote 'biros' and 'staples - 26/6' on sticky labels and affixed them to the melamine shelving. He ran his fingers round the inside of his shiny Sam Browne and barked the occasional order about whether hole punches (being heavier than lever arch files) should be stowed lower or higher up.
While Major Paperclip was managing to keep so many staff busy checking treasury tags and C5 (window) envelope stock and General Postit admired his updated chart with the red line pointing back at the ceiling again, no one noticed the invaders approaching.
Disclaimer: Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is
purely coincidental.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Is it going to be a barbeque summer?
I went for a walk in the suburban paradise around Prefab Towers at lunchtime. Feeling fleet of foot, I decided to investigate the shop furthest away, which was whatever Woollies has morphed into. It was chock full of odd bits and pieces, a cheap imitation of what Woollies once was. Bike chains hanging next to sewing thread and chocolates. A little beyond the 'wardrobe systems' I was surprised to see what every shopper needs in a slightly dull lunchbreak. Cremation urns, in a stack. Woolworths never sold urns did they? Perhaps they were hidden in the vase section I never excavated properly.
I started to think about how they could work the 'buy one get one free' offers. They'd have to do what Tesco does and 'have one now, one later' (although that's only really helpful for the mass murderers among us). I felt dark thoughts creeping into my mind. Perhaps this part of suburbia is hiding the sort of middle class that barbeque unwanted members of their families, and then pop to Timmy Woolworth to get the urn. I bet the woman on the till knows a few things that might interest the police. Maybe the police should open an urn shop themselves - they could check out the shoppers who ask about the loyalty card scheme.
As I left I decided the positioning of the urns was wrong. They would attract more attention near the 'Happy 100th birthday' cards.
* * * * * *
NB: At secretarial college I sat next to a woman who actually lived next door to a man who had famously barbequed his wife in Richmond. She said they had wondered about the number of al fresco meals he was enjoying, and about the strange smell that lingered on afterwards.
I started to think about how they could work the 'buy one get one free' offers. They'd have to do what Tesco does and 'have one now, one later' (although that's only really helpful for the mass murderers among us). I felt dark thoughts creeping into my mind. Perhaps this part of suburbia is hiding the sort of middle class that barbeque unwanted members of their families, and then pop to Timmy Woolworth to get the urn. I bet the woman on the till knows a few things that might interest the police. Maybe the police should open an urn shop themselves - they could check out the shoppers who ask about the loyalty card scheme.
As I left I decided the positioning of the urns was wrong. They would attract more attention near the 'Happy 100th birthday' cards.
* * * * * *
NB: At secretarial college I sat next to a woman who actually lived next door to a man who had famously barbequed his wife in Richmond. She said they had wondered about the number of al fresco meals he was enjoying, and about the strange smell that lingered on afterwards.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Special K
I was quite excited driving The Skip this week. I had done 49,999 miles. I was on the M40 and had to keep staring at the digital read out to watch the mileometre change. I glanced up to wonder if I needed anything from the M&S outlet in the MOTO services, looked back and, blast, 50,000 was showing.
When I thought about it, I hadn't actually missed anything. It's not like it used to be, when whichever old banger we were driving hit 100,000 and you actually had the deep joy of watching the wheels with the numbers on roll round in unison. The last nought was always a bit slow, you wanted them to clunk down together, like a fruit machine hitting the jackpot, but that last one was always tricky. There was nothing remotely interesting about my digital read out changing, no lovely little wheely things whirring around. Why, when someone has kindly left the speedometre as a proper dial, can't we keep real numbers stamped on little wheels. Just think of the sense of acceleration you get with the speedometer needle swirling round. Think about the hint of blackberry and apple and faint expectation of custard you get looking at the pie chart quality of a real clock. (When anyone in my family ask for a portion of pie or tart, we always ask for '10 minutes', or 'quarter of an hour' on an especially hungry day). It just doesn't work in digital. Where is the food analogy with a digital clock? There is just the hint of GCSE maths with take-awaysies to base sixty. It's not the same.
Bring back dials, bring back real clocks that have a tick from a pendulum, bring back phones that jangle when they ring because they have a bell inside! Digital is dingy!
When I thought about it, I hadn't actually missed anything. It's not like it used to be, when whichever old banger we were driving hit 100,000 and you actually had the deep joy of watching the wheels with the numbers on roll round in unison. The last nought was always a bit slow, you wanted them to clunk down together, like a fruit machine hitting the jackpot, but that last one was always tricky. There was nothing remotely interesting about my digital read out changing, no lovely little wheely things whirring around. Why, when someone has kindly left the speedometre as a proper dial, can't we keep real numbers stamped on little wheels. Just think of the sense of acceleration you get with the speedometer needle swirling round. Think about the hint of blackberry and apple and faint expectation of custard you get looking at the pie chart quality of a real clock. (When anyone in my family ask for a portion of pie or tart, we always ask for '10 minutes', or 'quarter of an hour' on an especially hungry day). It just doesn't work in digital. Where is the food analogy with a digital clock? There is just the hint of GCSE maths with take-awaysies to base sixty. It's not the same.
Bring back dials, bring back real clocks that have a tick from a pendulum, bring back phones that jangle when they ring because they have a bell inside! Digital is dingy!
Friday, 5 March 2010
Going Down?
I'm in the lift, strange faces again. I was so absorbed in my new theory that I forgot to press '9' and then looked daft as I scrabbled for the button as the red dotted '8' swung by encased in upward 'v' signs. The suspect pair had a trolley and a couple of brown paper parcels with them. Props I expect. There's probably a wire basket Lucky Dip of office basics on the roof to help add credibility. Clipboards are popular, as well as the ubiquitous text book with the post-it tags. There must be a row of pegs holding variations on the council lanyard and ID card. I tried to look at one of the lift men's ID cards, but it was cunningly clipped to the edge of his trouser pocket, overlapping his groin. I didn't want to stare too hard in case my interest was misinterpreted.
I've been suspicious of lifts since watching a Saturday night thriller on TV aged about eleven. A woman and a psychotic killer were locked in an office block, and the whole film was based around how she was trying to avoid a grizzly death (by being garroted with a letter knife or similar) and spent hours going up and down in the lifts, hopping out at different floors to see where the madman's lift was. I think it's stayed with me past it's sell-by date.
I hope there's no letter knife in the Lucky Dip on the roof. I won't be responsible for my actions!
I've been suspicious of lifts since watching a Saturday night thriller on TV aged about eleven. A woman and a psychotic killer were locked in an office block, and the whole film was based around how she was trying to avoid a grizzly death (by being garroted with a letter knife or similar) and spent hours going up and down in the lifts, hopping out at different floors to see where the madman's lift was. I think it's stayed with me past it's sell-by date.
I hope there's no letter knife in the Lucky Dip on the roof. I won't be responsible for my actions!
Monday, 1 March 2010
Can anyone show me the script please?
I work in a fourteen storey building, which must house a a finite number of employees. I've been working there over two years. How come every time I get in the lift there are people I've never seen before? In fact, when I use the kitchen on the ninth floor, if there is someone else squirting water from the boiler on a teabag, chances are I've not seen them before either. It's starting to worry me. Am I in a 'Truman Show' situation, where the actors are changing regularly? Should I try to break out through the skyline of my local suburbia, somewhere over Pound Mart and the non chain coffee shop that should be nice but isn't? Spookily, today someone was very friendly and spoke to me like they knew me - I could swear I hadn't seen them before. They took the stairs though.
Perhaps there's a crowd of people on the roof, just coming down one or two at a time in the lifts. If I don't get in, maybe they change on the ground floor and go up again until they are spotted. Come to think of it, the security guys in their office on the ground floor always look quite knowing. They're often on the phone too, perhaps they're sending a message to the group of bit-part extras on the roof.
I would take the stairs more often to avoid this conundrum. Trouble is, 252 stairs leaves me gasping for breath at the photocopier and my cappuccino has gone disappointingly tepid by the time I collapse, wheezing, at my desk. The (very good) coffee shop join me in some mild Health and Safety anarchy, and now super-heat my beverage to skin-grafting temperatures. Hopefully, as I get fitter, this won't be necessary. I'll be able to bound up the stairs three at a time, laughing joyfully as I biff the green button on the photocopier to wake it up on my way to my pod zone. I then biff the button on my computer which also takes a good ten minutes to come round. I take the opportunity to stare at the view of Canary Wharf in the distance, where my friend- who-did-better-than-me-at-school works. There must be loads of people in that building, I'll ask her if she recognises anyone in the lifts.
Perhaps there's a crowd of people on the roof, just coming down one or two at a time in the lifts. If I don't get in, maybe they change on the ground floor and go up again until they are spotted. Come to think of it, the security guys in their office on the ground floor always look quite knowing. They're often on the phone too, perhaps they're sending a message to the group of bit-part extras on the roof.
I would take the stairs more often to avoid this conundrum. Trouble is, 252 stairs leaves me gasping for breath at the photocopier and my cappuccino has gone disappointingly tepid by the time I collapse, wheezing, at my desk. The (very good) coffee shop join me in some mild Health and Safety anarchy, and now super-heat my beverage to skin-grafting temperatures. Hopefully, as I get fitter, this won't be necessary. I'll be able to bound up the stairs three at a time, laughing joyfully as I biff the green button on the photocopier to wake it up on my way to my pod zone. I then biff the button on my computer which also takes a good ten minutes to come round. I take the opportunity to stare at the view of Canary Wharf in the distance, where my friend- who-did-better-than-me-at-school works. There must be loads of people in that building, I'll ask her if she recognises anyone in the lifts.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
What's the point in IT?
The IT training room at work feels a bit like being in prison. A high quality prison, but a prison all the same. All the tacky matching-but-cheap furnishings cloned from every IT suite across the universe (there's probably an alien somewhere, wrestling with computer concepts, sitting on the dual adjustable office chair) laid out so you can only stare at your monitor or the magnolia wall. It feels like you've been sent to the naughty corner. The single, small window is set high in the wall to avoid the wanton allure of the suburban paradise below distracting us from our task. I stood on tiptoe to open the window to try to alleviate the drone from the monitors and ceiling projector. A pneumatic drill started attacking some belligerent concrete outside. The window was closed. The air went dry. The room remained souless.
The wall screen bore the time in its curled up corner, cruelly accurate to the minute.
I gazed despondently out of the grey window at the grey sky.
'The anti-bird netting seems to be woven into interesting trapeziums' I thought desperately to myself. Just at that moment, an anarchic pigeon released two dollops of poo that splattered across the window pane.
It was OK, it was grey.
It matched.
The wall screen bore the time in its curled up corner, cruelly accurate to the minute.
I gazed despondently out of the grey window at the grey sky.
'The anti-bird netting seems to be woven into interesting trapeziums' I thought desperately to myself. Just at that moment, an anarchic pigeon released two dollops of poo that splattered across the window pane.
It was OK, it was grey.
It matched.
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
Odd, Clever, Strange.
I was walking past the Tate Modern today, and thought I shouldn't walk past, I should go in and 'get me some culture'. For a huge place, I've only ever seen a few things that really grab me, and generally I find it rather disappointing. Today there was what looked like an outsized lorry container in the Turbine Hall. I wasn't sure I could be bothered to even go down the stairs to look at it. Then I saw a sign that showed you could walk into it from the other end, so, slightly intrigued, I went round. The container was open with the end dropped down making a broad ramp. It still looked too uninspiring to bother navigating the slight incline to get in. Just as I was about to turn away, a young girl went past saying, 'Wow, what an experience'. Confused, I wandered up the ramp and was drawn into the void. I walked further and further into the container and the darkness became increasingly thick, like soup. Faces came upon me suddenly, out of the apparent nowhere and people bumped against each other. It was disorientating, but mesmerising. It reminded me of seeing a swarm of bats one night in the park. I couldn't see them until they were right in my personal space, when they swooped away with a deft screw turn.
A cluster of pale faces marked the back wall of the container. Turning round, I could see the end of the Turbine Hall, in normal daylight.
Odd. Clever. Strange.
A cluster of pale faces marked the back wall of the container. Turning round, I could see the end of the Turbine Hall, in normal daylight.
Odd. Clever. Strange.
Saturday, 13 February 2010
How much for a wing mirror?
I've had to rather traumatically give up my free parking pass at work. This means I have to find a spot in the streets around Prefab Towers. On Friday, I parked in quite a good place on a fairly wide main road. When I came back to the car, someone had smashed into the wing mirror and left it dangling by a solitary electric cable. It reminded me of two things: being seven years old with a tooth hanging by the last string of skin, dangling and twisting rather uncomfortably (I never was quite brave enough to yank it out, and went for days spitting a tooth out at people as I spoke) and how an eyeball might look after being snookered out of its orbit, hanging by the optic nerve.
I drove home gingerly, and most of today has been spent trying to sort out a replacement. The jolly man at the garage under the railway bridge said it would be £175. That's without the time to fit it and before he had screwed the number plate on properly (about time I had a gaffer-tape free car I thought).
£175!
For a mirror!
Blimey!
It spurred me on to test out Halford's customer service, which does those boring ads between Top Gear on the Dave channel. I had done my homework and found a universal mirror for £13.99 on the internet. I started to lose the will to live after giving my registration number three times over the phone to the Saturday chap in the local branch. To make it easy, I even gave him the catalogue number. He spent some time rummaging around in the attic and came back to say he had one. I hot footed it down to the shop, to find that what was behind the till was a towing mirror. I don't have a caravan, and obviously also didn't have a wing mirror to attach it to. The helpful chap went scurrying back into the attic. While I waited, I strolled up to the mirror display and found the one I wanted.
Back to the jolly man in the garage who obviously saw the word 'mug' written across my forehead, because an hour later he charged me £50 to fit it (and do the number plate). As I handed over my hard earned cash, he said I needed some gaffer tape to stop the rain getting in and stopping the window from working.
I tried to look concerned, but regular readers will know that the window hasn't worked for some time.
I was more annoyed that I still needed a roll of gaffer-tape in the glove compartment.
I drove home gingerly, and most of today has been spent trying to sort out a replacement. The jolly man at the garage under the railway bridge said it would be £175. That's without the time to fit it and before he had screwed the number plate on properly (about time I had a gaffer-tape free car I thought).
£175!
For a mirror!
Blimey!
It spurred me on to test out Halford's customer service, which does those boring ads between Top Gear on the Dave channel. I had done my homework and found a universal mirror for £13.99 on the internet. I started to lose the will to live after giving my registration number three times over the phone to the Saturday chap in the local branch. To make it easy, I even gave him the catalogue number. He spent some time rummaging around in the attic and came back to say he had one. I hot footed it down to the shop, to find that what was behind the till was a towing mirror. I don't have a caravan, and obviously also didn't have a wing mirror to attach it to. The helpful chap went scurrying back into the attic. While I waited, I strolled up to the mirror display and found the one I wanted.
Back to the jolly man in the garage who obviously saw the word 'mug' written across my forehead, because an hour later he charged me £50 to fit it (and do the number plate). As I handed over my hard earned cash, he said I needed some gaffer tape to stop the rain getting in and stopping the window from working.
I tried to look concerned, but regular readers will know that the window hasn't worked for some time.
I was more annoyed that I still needed a roll of gaffer-tape in the glove compartment.
Friday, 12 February 2010
The Magic Carpet
When we are down, we look at the clouds. We see nothing else.
Storm clouds, dark clouds.
A deep depression.
Friends and family come together to shoulder our trouble on a magic carpet of love. Raising us up to better see the sky.
If we look at the clouds, the supporters silently shuffle round beneath us, turning the carpet so our face looks to the sunlight. We might turn our head away, not ready to see it yet.
Quietly, the carpet shuffles round again, trying to direct us to the light.
Sometimes the burden of holding the carpet up is immense. The supporters know they must not buckle under the weight of grief; yours or their own. They hold their breath. Heads down, arms across each other’s trusty shoulders, they side step around the black hole of despair, determined not to let you fall again.
The magnitude of the task is bolstered by love, by trust and by faith in you.
They want no gratitude, only to see your face turn to the light.
They know that somewhere, deep in your soul, you are aware of the ride.
Storm clouds, dark clouds.
A deep depression.
Friends and family come together to shoulder our trouble on a magic carpet of love. Raising us up to better see the sky.
If we look at the clouds, the supporters silently shuffle round beneath us, turning the carpet so our face looks to the sunlight. We might turn our head away, not ready to see it yet.
Quietly, the carpet shuffles round again, trying to direct us to the light.
Sometimes the burden of holding the carpet up is immense. The supporters know they must not buckle under the weight of grief; yours or their own. They hold their breath. Heads down, arms across each other’s trusty shoulders, they side step around the black hole of despair, determined not to let you fall again.
The magnitude of the task is bolstered by love, by trust and by faith in you.
They want no gratitude, only to see your face turn to the light.
They know that somewhere, deep in your soul, you are aware of the ride.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Sport for the Lazy
There's something therapeutic about trying to bat the living daylights out of a shuttlecock. Every ounce of stress or anger from the day can be directed at the flimsy feathered thing that is cockroach-like in it's inability to be destroyed.
I'm now wondering whether there is something in the prefix or suffix 'cock' that makes it indestructable. Hmm, something to think about there.....
Snap out of it girl!
Sorry, where was I?
Oh yes, the shuttlecock. What is so wonderful is that, unlike a tennis ball, you don't have to run far to retrieve it. You can achieve pretty good shots with not that much effort, the racquet is nice and light and you also tend to play indoors so you don't get the sun in your eyes or the wind whisking the focus of your pent-up emotions away. Yes, badminton is a sport well suited to the lazy athlete. I also like cycling because it's exercise done sitting down, and swimming backstroke, because its as near to lying in bed as exercise gets. All that comfy water holding you up. Table tennis might have lighter bats, and those weedy balls, but they do tend to roll a long way away and lodge in tricky places under furniture. If you don't look where you are treading, there's an annoying crunch and you have to bring the game to a premature close (a useful device to employ if you are losing as a draw is the only sportsman-like option in this situation).
Running is by far too much like hard work, and runners always have bandaged knees or ankles, which proves it's not good for you. Rugby players spend as much time in casualty waiting for ear transplants as they do running around the pitch, and cricketers need armoured protection for their well, you know what*, which points to an obvious highly undesirable element in the game.
So, grab a lightweight racquet,swirl it around a few times so it makes a very satisfying whooshing noise in the air, and reduce your blood pressure instantly by thrashing a shuttlecock.
*like those puzzles, fill in the gap the word that makes two new words:
shuttle(_ _ _ _)roach
I'm now wondering whether there is something in the prefix or suffix 'cock' that makes it indestructable. Hmm, something to think about there.....
Snap out of it girl!
Sorry, where was I?
Oh yes, the shuttlecock. What is so wonderful is that, unlike a tennis ball, you don't have to run far to retrieve it. You can achieve pretty good shots with not that much effort, the racquet is nice and light and you also tend to play indoors so you don't get the sun in your eyes or the wind whisking the focus of your pent-up emotions away. Yes, badminton is a sport well suited to the lazy athlete. I also like cycling because it's exercise done sitting down, and swimming backstroke, because its as near to lying in bed as exercise gets. All that comfy water holding you up. Table tennis might have lighter bats, and those weedy balls, but they do tend to roll a long way away and lodge in tricky places under furniture. If you don't look where you are treading, there's an annoying crunch and you have to bring the game to a premature close (a useful device to employ if you are losing as a draw is the only sportsman-like option in this situation).
Running is by far too much like hard work, and runners always have bandaged knees or ankles, which proves it's not good for you. Rugby players spend as much time in casualty waiting for ear transplants as they do running around the pitch, and cricketers need armoured protection for their well, you know what*, which points to an obvious highly undesirable element in the game.
So, grab a lightweight racquet,swirl it around a few times so it makes a very satisfying whooshing noise in the air, and reduce your blood pressure instantly by thrashing a shuttlecock.
*like those puzzles, fill in the gap the word that makes two new words:
shuttle(_ _ _ _)roach
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