Chips with gravitas pliz

I've been trying to push my luck at work, to test my new theory that I've achieved new gravitas and standing just by having lived longer than I had last year. My theory involves pissing about blatantly, or robbing them blind, and waiting to see if they actually comment, much less object.

Round 1 - blatant four hour tea break in the office with feet up, biccies and a paper, when working against a deadline.
Me half a point, jatb half a point. Somebody came by and 'offered' to meet my deadline for me twice (see yesterday's blog), then sighed and went off and started the work without me.
Round 2 - Setting up a tv in my room, and watching Trisha on full volume with the doors open, when working against a deadline.
Me two points, jatb nil points.
Round 3 - Nicking the tv and giving it away to a friend.
Haven't developed the bottle to do this yet....
Round 4 - Performing hits from corny musicals in the corridors when up against a deadline.
Rounds 5 and 6 - yet to be invented.

I'm on Round 4 tomorrow, and I've bet jatb a fiver that if I continue in this vein, they'll not even mention that my behaviour is becoming a little odd by Friday.

Adding weight to the spurious smell of 'gravitas' is the repeat of yesterday's promotion convo, today. I hadn't looked that eager, so they went away and sweetened the deal for me (bastards! I don't want to do it, but greed and curiosity are pulling me, pulling me doooooowwwwwwwwn....)
It's a bit like last Easter, when I lost all interest in working for a living and disappeared for two weeks straight, then turned up back at work again. Quite contrary to the bollocking and marching orders I had expected, suddenly I could do no wrong - I'd gone in a trice from 'gullible wage slave loser' to 'management material written all over her'. They sent me on all these courses about becoming a senior manager.
Weird, huh? In a 1940s BBC information film I'd be the twitching dumbshow visual behind the double-barrelled announcer "Workers! Don't make effort at work. Promotions is gained by disassociation from the working class. Act as though you are no longer dependent on money. If you appear too unstable to make a living, you will be admired and feted by your betters."
Today's deal is double the money, and I don't have to do my current job at the same time, like before. That surprised the heck out of me (I hadn't been negotiating, I genuinely don't want to do it.) I'm holding out for no responsibility for mistakes, and all confrontational situations taken off my hands. Cos I'm a delicate sensitive flower.

So, here's where my luck patently migrated from:
CNPS - 19. Still.
Celebdaq - 32677th place.

Fat Bob. Bob the Blob. Fat Blobby Bastard Bob.

Don't worry, my Site Stats Psychosis can't last much longer. All it takes is someone in the real, offline world to explain quietly how silly it is or give a disapproving look, and that usually quells the thing for a whole month.
But not yet.......... he he.
I dickered with the Guestmap ==> and turned everyone's icons into something different, amongst other things. I'm a pink rabbit now.
It seemed funny at the time.

Today I knew I had a huuuuuge amount of carrying very very heavy things to do. Enough to fill most of the day.
So, eager to get started and prove my mettle, I sat in the general office and read my newspaper frantically from 8am till 1.30pm in the hopes that I was a senior enough figure for nobody to question this (tee hee! Worked! This is A Bad Sign).
But eventually, Peachykeenyboy pointed out that if I simply asked absolutely everybody to help, it wouldn't take long. I agreed, and voted to wait another hour while I worked up the strength to ask; so he, being peachykeeny and all, went and asked everybody for me. That's helpful, but it's also just too peachykeeny.
I pointed out that it was really lunchtime-ish and I should wait till I'd finished the whole paper, so they all started it up without me. That gave me guilts, so I had to join in.
It took about four hours or so of really really hard physical work. We carted up around 8000 chunky A4 sized hardback books. (yes, it's actually part of my job to count the things... ffs - thankfully it's such a ridiculous concept that nobody can ever be bothered to check.) That's up four double flights of stairs. when you've pretty much walked to the car and back three times a week all summer it's no joke.
At one point the stairs were chocka with 6 people who were hot, tired, carrying too many things too far. No words were possible in that stifling muggy heat, so the entire stairwell sounded like a bad porno movie.

In fact, after three and a half hours everyone else (i.e., those who had no vested interest in carrying books/shortening natural life span) quite understandably sloped away, leaving me with about 400 books left. I did two more super huge piles, then nearly had an aneurism on the stairs. Like, proper puffy! I had to climb out of peachkeenyboy's window and sit on the roof till I could breathe again. (Christ, what's the point of never having smoked if all those 20 a day bastards don't have to lie on the roof for 20 minutes to calm down?)
I had no idea I had gotten so bloody unfit again. Well, okay, slight exagg: I knew I hadn't moved far for weeks; I knew I had put on six pounds - a Bad Thing - but to come across as Buster Blood Vessel for walking up and down stairs a few times?
This might be serious. This might involve Actual Exercise. . . . .

Shattered

In my wisdom (aka already disoriented and confused from lack of sleep), I decided to stay up all night on Sunday, to sort out my body clock by overloading it.
Just about getting to the grinding teeth stage now, veer from hot to cold alternately, and my vision flashies at the periphery. I've already emailed insults to about thirty undeserving people; my rudeness filter (unreliable and wavering at the best of times) is completely broked till I get some sleep.
For some reason, everything I eat is either protein overload (fresh burger with fried egg / mayo topping), caffeinated (espresso, instant [spit], filter, latter, coke, tea, even Maxpax) or 65% sugar, aka raspberry jam with extra pips (hey, I'm dazed, it tookone had more sugar content than the Duchy of Cornwall 62% sugar content jam).

I mangled^H^H^H^delivered three hours of training and presentations to 13 people in this sad bedraggled state - think I got away with it ... they only seemed to stare at me and shake their heads three times. Was it totally obvious my disconnected mumbling bore no relation to logic? Yet I still got offered another promotion! Weirdos. Have refused this one twice already last year.
Will refuse again, of course - would rather work on attaining sanity than cash. I can't even mumble coherently in public, and they want me to be in charge? Bloody idiots.
I'm a born underling, an idler, a grumbling malcontent. How could I bloody function if I were the Evil Boss against whom I plot, fume and betray at every chance?

Tomorrow I'm going to nick a widescreen telly. It's true! I need to find me a gullible fool, though, for the getaway. It's for Duch and I'll wager she'll pay me in foooooooooooooooood.

Disclaimer: don't bumming well blame me if this entry makes no sense. Blame time, blame jobs blame clockwatchers. You malcontent.
I'm off to bed, up with the caffeine at six!

Squirt!

Spent a long lazy breakfast reading other people's blogs. There's some hilarious writing out there.

Then I added a Guestmap to the blogrings below.

It's a lovely little thing. Please please please pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease will you pin on the map where you're reading from? *huuuuuuuge grin*
Right, I'm going to pour all the washing up liquid out of the bottle now, and play target wars with rubber duckies in the bath... *cough* ... I mean, write that document, yes, course, shyah, right, I mean do some work.

Grumpy Blog

Can't decide if today was good or bad.

On the good side, I managed to get up at ten this morning. On the bad side, the virtue all belongs to the Sikh festival-goers eight doors down who hired the steel band and amplifiers.
However, waking up to see late festival goers dressed up to the nines in orange turbans and amazing jewel encrusted saris is a pretty lively way to start the day, and it puts me in with a better chance of waking up by eight or nine tomorrow.

On the good side, Tajik Girl, who I vaguely recognise from somewhere, and who has the best job I've heard of for ages, invited me to her party tonight. On the bad side, I didn't even tell her I wasn't going to go, because I couldn't think of a polite or amiable enough way to say I have hugely self-pityingly gross PMT. It seems quite pathetic as excuses go, although I don't think I'd have made good company tonight.
However, wallowing in supremely maudlin tearjerkers tonight was nice; I watched Angela's Ashes (which Tess made me read, to her everlasting praise). Also, Etre Et Avoir, which is sposed to be excellent, is on digital on Monday night.

On the good side, I spent a serious amount of money on a great wool pinstripe suit for work. On the bad side, your friendly distorting changing room mirror tells me I haven't done any real exercise this summer, and I need to lose 4-6 pounds at least.
However, I'll be on my feet dashing and diving all day from Monday; and the amount of energy I'm burning should take a vertiginous leap. It shouldn't really take more than a fortnight if I'm stern with myself.

On the good side, I got some really gorgeous monkfish tail cheap yesterday (dead scrumptious and 'spensive, it was). On the bad side, I had to rip / hack / saw / tear a thick gelatinous membrane from the fish first, which was so slimy, rubbbery, and gruesome, that I had to keep the tap running and rinse my hands every four seconds to keep from retching.
However, although I'll never ever cook tamarind curry monkfish ever again, now that I know just how bloody difficult that fish is, I'll enjoy it all the more in restaurants.

On the bad side, I still find myself incapable of getting started on the document I need to write and print by Monday. On the good side, the sheer weight of 14 hours of displacement activities means that my flat is now spotless - no, really spotless -inside and out.
However, my first burst of ironing in seven years or so reminded me of how pointless an activity it is. Why can't shirts iron themselves? They have arms.

I dunno. On the good side, I think it was a good day, that my sour mood is determined to interpret badly. On the bad side, I just tried to end on a positive note, there, and then coughed up half a monkfish on the screen. Am I Laurel? Or Hardy? I think both.

Watching Me Watching You

In a fit of boredom brought about by no alcohol and not going out last night, I had another bout of Site Stats Mania. My Mania only extended far enough today to look at a few stats for yesterday evening/late afternoon, thankfully. (Some readers will know that previous episodes have resulted in actual spreadsheets.)
There's a fair contingent of Americans who read this blog, which I find weird. You're very welcome to read, if you're American - I'm just puzzled about what quite so many Americans can be getting from one woman's pissed ramblings about being bored in Tower Hamlets. If any American readers want to add a comment, I'll put up blurry photos of London landmarks, in return.
I also noticed a single, fairly regular reader from Baghdad, to whom I'd like to offer a warm welcome. Whoever you are, hope you're safe.
The denizens of three UK universities allowed some pause in the furious stimulation of their cortex to log on. Must have been downtime! People also popped in from Trinidad, Australia and Singapore. Bet it's not 19 degrees and raining there.

Normally, I'd wait till I was blotto, preferably with someone I originally know from online, so the geek accusations can only let fly in a mild fashion, to admit to my Site Stats Psychosis. In fact, the only real reason I have to blog about my site stats is to ask one particular person to log on from elsewhere.
To whoever logged on from a US Government computer network last Monday - couldn't it wait? Till you got home? Please? Cos your stats are really scaring me......

Working For a Living? Who, Me??

Nothing much to say today. It's terribly boring trying not to drink and not to eat and not to pick your nose all at the same time.
My six week holiday is done today: just the weekend left, then I'm back at work. Unfortunately for me, I agreed to write a really really huge document, print 30 copies then lead a training session on Monday. So prevaricating and procrastinating has begun in earnest.
Things I didn't bother to do this summer: (as well as the actual work I just mentioned)
I really should have gone in today, to see if the #150 file that I need has been thrown away, after I left it in a pile labelled 'throw this away'. I guess if it has been, I'll just blame someone else. *big grin, tosses hair*
My two offices were also moved in July, and I didn't bother putting anything away, so it presumably still looks like a building site. The walls are colourful, though! Guess I have some shifting to do. Gah. Anyway, the immediate issue is changing my sleep patterns: right now I sleep from about 6am till 3pm. My hours will shift this year to 8.15-2.45 (ooh, lovely long afternoons free to watch loads of movies, rah) - which sounds disturbingly like shift work to me. I live 12 miles from where I work, so I'd have to be out of the house by seven in the morning - sounds like torture right now! On Monday, I'll probably be home by the time I'd normally get up.

Spoke to the DH in Sydney yesterday; apparently she's seen just one non-white face in the whole city so far. No-one in Oz/Sydney seems to think this is weird. The place sounds more like early 1990s Jo'burg, quite frankly.
She's gone to a women rugby player's ball tonight. I have no idea what that involves, but I can't help thinking of fat white muddy arms and taffeta! Tee hee.

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Back to Reality

Five minor shocks today:

The hangover from hell;
What the HELL was I thinking writing blog entries about poo?
The TV licence man believing my story, chatting about the weather, and apologising for disturbing me;
Realising that I spent 3 hours on a mobile phone call to France last night;
Banging scratching noises emanating from a kitchen cupboard - opened it to see four creepy little yellow eyes glaring angrily at me.

Base bodily functions

If you're of a sensitive disposition, you might like to look away now.

I've been feasting on coffee, all-bran, hot curry, raw fish and platefulls of sashimi all week.

This is the super-spiced curry that Vic recommended I make, for added visual effect.

So now I've just had the hugest poo I've ever seen, like cement. It goes beyond poo, it's probably a national security threat. Bliminy, I didn't think fish could do that! I was almost tempted to mimic Avid Merrion's coat hanger trick for a while there.
Hmmm, this blog's becoming rather base, too many purged food groups by far. I'm going to lose all my proddy readers.
Never blog after ten hours out on the piss!

Evolution Rocks!

I am so-o-o-o proud.

My cat just puked out of the window. This time a fortnight ago, it was my pillow. Last week, it was over the rug. But today... not in a bucket, not in the sink, not the bog or the bin. Not the windowsill, or on the window pane. But out through the window.

This, truly, is evolution at work. Fookin fadabbydozi!

PS. Decided to go with the pseudonyms. So now all the names are changed. Well, most of them. If you don't know who you are, check your diary to see what you did wrong, and when.

This entry is dedicated to Swansea John

Dammit! I forgot to blog for Tuesday. Indolence, pure indolence.
I didn't have anything to blog, anyway, except to put up fmc's video message to Swansea John. (If your PC is a crap one, right click and 'save', John.)
Believe me, we're both veh veh veh drank in that video.
Tomorrow, I'm meeting Looby for lunch in Maida Vale. (that link should appeal to his self-abnegation.)
I should really be working, but I'm trying desperately to avoid stressing the final week of the hols away, as I do every year - when I have a week or even a day of hols normally, I don't whinge about it or spend it thinking I've wasted my time. I just live it up. But every summer, the final week is just one long round of nightmares and attrition.
Wish I knew what the DH was doing.

Motoristical Maniasis

Very very very quiet, cool (as in temperature 22 degrees cool, not as in funky) day, spent reading The Amber Spyglass, and pootling on here. Duch is back from the States, but I'm still not sure if I've murdered all the greenery she ever planted, yet. I'm quite nervous about ringing her to find out....
I've updated lots of the blog entries from the last week or so with incriminating pictures of my friends, but I'm quite undecided about whether to use pseudonyms for them in future, or to continue with a mixture of real and made-up names. I suppose if they complain I should make it up - no, but the DH argued that it was an invasion of privacy years ago, so I guess I should make all names up. Arrrghhhh, that means I now have to be responsible for the names I make up - I most definitely have names ready for eveybody, but not names they would like....

Someone pointed out this truly idiotic road scheme to me on a dyke messageboard, today: I know I'm guilty of having become the world's most driver-centric bigot, in the two years since I passed my tests, but this thing seems dangerous.
Say you were in an accident, and the driver of the car that hit you had no m.o.t., then his/her car wouldn't have had this chip installed, and you'd be stuffed on your insurance (no joke, I wrote my car off in a crash in June, and my insurance now costs me #1300 per year).
The whole scheme sounds dreadful - not for the fact that it stops people speeding or driving in bus lanes (it won't, because the majority of people will simply not get an m.o.t., or get a dodgy one done, making our roads afar more dangerous place to be. Enough people don't pay road tax or dodge their m.o.t. as it is), but because of the offset invasion of our civil rights. I don't agree with i.d. cards, and I don't agree with the government tracking where and when I drive every day. It's simply too intrusive. (heck, I don't even have supermarkety loyalty cards.)
The people who are caught and fined will be a specific group of drivers - the law abiding group. Punitive rulings like this one simply ensure that this group becomes yet smaller, and that dangerous driving on our roads becomes ever more likely - even encouraged - and ever more dangerous.
If you're a cyclist or a pedestrian, your life will become yet more at risk, as in this scheme the government has created advantages to driving unsafe illegal vehicles, and simultaneously lowered the penalties for speeding, because these cars will be less likely to be caught.

Gah...simmer! And.... breathe.

Finally, if you get a second, there are three new blogs on the blogroll < == over there. Riverbend's blog, in particular, is so well written, it hurts. Do have a look.

character assassination

Had a really nice day snoozing in the sun and reading the His Dark Materials trilogy***. Then I watched some filmage, and got bored (I've watched hordes of films over the last few days, and every single one has been so awful I've left/switched off/returned the dvd unwatched, apart from this incredible 1955 Preminger / Sinatra fillum, 'The Man With the Golden Arm' - about heroin addiction, that scored his fraying nerves to a jazz soundtrack. Nothing has seemed as good since.)
And then...... I cut my hair
I'm not going to tell you anything more about that, other than this: "oh shit".

Random things 1: Terry Venables was at Belllini at the same time as us on Friday;
fmc: "is that some sort of [feigns disgust] football type?"
man at next table: "venables." I *knew* they were eavesdropping!
Random things 2: Choice has presented itself, between meeting really lovely straight blokes I know for an hour or two next week, or meeting unknown not straight women for far more hours and alcohol. Conundrum!
Anyone who read my blog entry on August 16th will know just how tortuous this decision will prove (and just how likely a duvet escape becomes.)

As promised, responses to my blog that people email to me:

You're bonkers, you must come to my party!
Well, okay, I admit I lied that I couldn't use the net to read your blog. I did read a bit. Erm, it was about... something.**
Still obsessed with site statistics, I see?
Ha, I forgot all about *that* sort of blog, one of my kids had one, *now* I remember. [is that good or bad? ulp]
My doom time is 23:23 and has been since I was 16ish. I figured, eventually, that it was usually the time I staggered in from the local pub...
I have checked the site for suitability. [????!]
Don't understand blogs and can't access from here.**
Very impressed with your home-page (is that what it is called?). Had a 'peep' at it, well... a bit more than just a 'peep'
confused by your website...do you really have kittens?
2 laz 2 typ prprly...

So you can feel less intimidated about using the comments boxes, now that you know others read it and are also appalled....

** from the _same_ person! Damn slug texters.

***I wasn't enjoying this so much on the first book, but gradually, it feels more and more like Pullman's influences are the same as some of my favourite authors: Whitman, Voltaire, Milton, Dante, Blake, TS Eliot, Shakespeare, Rilke.... 'course, I might be wrong!

This page graced by sarsparilla at 11:39 PM BST
Updated: Sunday, 31 August 2003 10:31 PM BST
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damn damn damn damn

I forgot to water Duch's copious garden area yesterday and the day before. I'm racked with guilt. I'd better dash the six miles to her house now, and write a blog entry when I get back.
Alistair keeps emailing me very wise sounding opinions about religion. I agree with most of them, and on some points I differ; the worrying point is that I only really seem to know what I think while pissed. Or while reading Paradise Lost. At the mo, I'm prevaricating as to whether beauty is ritual or whether ritual is excitement. Pffft, it doesn't make sense out of context of the direction of the daydream, so I shouldn't even be writing it.
I should have asked fmc what I thought, yesterday (she of the slug texts), she always acts as a wholly self-improving sounding board.
Anyway, gotta *run* before it gets dark and I get covered in hosepipe water AGAIN.
Had loads of funny IM's and emails from people who don't like to comment publicly on here again - will post them up later. hehehehe.

What Shall I Have To Eat?

My fridge looks damn near full to me, but whenever I go to feed my face, nothing presents itself as actually edible. So, in advance my 3pm feed tomorrow, and hoping you don't make me so sick I can't face my 'talian night out, could you have a peek at what's in my fridge and give me some bloody suggestions?

What shall I have to eat?

Note: Those two slices of bacon will be gone by breakfast time.

And just for the people who still insist they can only comment on my blog by email, I promise not to shout at you this time about it. Nnnnnnnnnnnggggg.

Other pics I just whacked up on the site include my sister's bizarre Corrie project; snapshots I took while at the ladies' nude bathing ponds at Hampstead Heath; and of course the by now obligatory cat.
Although somehow the most marvellous pic I've seen today is this car. Anyone got $78K spare for me to ride it? (pleeeeeeeeeeeeease, he could introduce me to Cordelia...)

meatal oedema, not myathlon lemur, you fool!

Another classic typing error that I thought they'd never discover.
I can't tell you how spirit destroyingly dull typing doctor's letters are. Particularly when they mumble into their dictaphones about English Graduates who should be able to spell meatal bloody oedema. My sleep habits haven't changed a jot while I've been covering Duch's job, so I've been crashing around 4am, which tends to lend a rather grumpy bad tempered flavour to the day. Got home at 5.30 tonight, then fell into a deep sleep on the bug fluffy white rug, and didn't wake till 9ish. I feel extremely disoriented, now!
Today I saw the Chancellor of the Exchequer of Bahrain (nice man), and Jeremy Paxman (very grey haired now, far too grey haired for the foxy chick he was rather desperately trotting alongside, in my opinion).
I also remembered the power of the short skimpy skirt to get seats on trains, stop traffic, get you free lunches, etc. Bizarre. Like cobweb covered Harley St doctor's surgeries, it's all about the window dressing, I suppose.
Anyway, it was as torpid as ever working in an office today. It's certainly cured me of any grass-is-greener work syndrome. Thank christ for Pears, who involved me in an hour long phone call from France, to save me from the typing. He gets full Samaritan points!
Tomorrow, I'm going to meet the texter of the slug text for a glass of fine Sangiovese and some choice moist Italian nibbles at 6 in Belllini, in High St Ken. If any of you lot are nearby and want to come along, feel free*! I've already hacked into jatb's udate account and tried to man-trap her date tomorrow into coming along. Hehe.

* = unless I really don't know you at all, in which case I shall tolerate you, but ask the waiter to spit in your food when you look away.

Avast

Spent the day piddling around Bluewater, and watching Pirates of the Caribbean, which is highly enjoyable camp old tosh. Hurrah! (raises sword from scabbard and swashes buckle)

Not looking forward to the job from Purgatory, tomorrow.

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System Addict

Today angelfire shut my blog down at noon, as it had exceeded 1 gig's bandwidth. I call this toss of the highest order.
Toss, sir, again I say to you, toss! I never did no sech thing guvnor.
I know I can 'yourmum' angelfire safely, as, having looked at some of the blogs on their sample pages, I feel certain there is no quality control whatsoever.

I am charged, today, with the sheer responsibility of ministering to the physical needs of Sheikhs and harems.
That and having to water Duch's garden (memo to self: you put the garden hose onto jetwash setting, you kill things; remember this.)

Duch rang me at her Harley St practice from America, to check that I was definitely living up to my promise of doing a worse job than her (I say Harley Street, so you know why there were Sheikhs and harems, and don't get confused into thinking they're some new London variety of ice cream dessert - I've never met a Sheikh - or a harem - afore today, sah, and oi can't say as it's terrible thrilling, lah.) However, I can't actually say I've put effort into my mission, as yet - it came quite naturally.
I did have to admit to her in the first four seconds of the conversation that this is the most mind-torchingly tedious job I have ever had the misfortune to endure. I'd rather pluck hedgehogs with my teeth than spend more than my allotted two days doing this.
Are all officey type jobs as frigging dire as this? Imagine watching a cobweb form. Aaaaaaaaaargh!

I've been told off at least four times, so I'm doing Duch proud.

I turned up waaaaaaaay late, without excuse or apology.
I chased a paying customer away because he had the temerity to be late.
I chased a harem's interpreter away because her English wasn't good enough.
I was caught out embellishing medical details to make a better story in a medical emergency situation ("little girls who've had tonsillectomies don't bleed from their ears, Vanessa").
The consultant has yet to realise that when I took dictation, rather than look things up in the med dictionary, I just made all the names of the ailments and medicines up. (Betrodouethylamane, anyone? Try getting a prescription for that.) I'm betting money that he doesn't spot all of them.

Entropy

>meep<

slugathon

Here, for your perusal, is a recently received text from a friend, in all its glory:

AAARGH MAKE IT
GO AWAY! (BIG
Scream) SLUG in
the house hide
under the duvet.
Horrors! Spineless
creatures -
like having a Tory
in your home.
I may have to
move.

Sigh.

Ten points for anyone who can tell which friend sent this text... Here's a false clue.
(thirty points wins you an introduction to SEXYMALE87 on udate; Vic already won 10 - be scared)