Am drowning misery, till it rattles and dies. Go away.
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Three hundred and Sixteen Thousand US dollars.
Two hundred and Seventy Thousand Euros.
Equal to Eight hundred and Fifty One ounces of gold.
Plus the money for the furniture.
I couldn't find the exchange rate for pieces of silver.
To put that into perspective, she wants me to get a mortgage that is seven times my salary (despite the outstanding court judgements against me). And then to spend the next fifty years of my life paying for the mistake of having trusted her.
This is 'fair.' It will allow her to give up work, and to extend the appetite for travel which the 8 weeks in Australia I paid for whetted.
I've never even conceived that a person could segue into money grabbing usurer so quickly.
Do all this, and pay for the food, Vanessa.
If this is the deal, boy do I stand to take me some well-deserved slaps out of it.
I suddenly felt better for having acted my way through all of last night (dutiful reasonable ex-girlfriend role), for having been someone there, then, able to help that kid, and for having nothing worse to worry about than my own hurt feelings.
Yay!
Strangeness indeed.
So, of course, wanting cyberspace to be neat, I left a wanky comment.
Other news:
Lemonpillows was the first ever victim of a flashblog yesterday. Go congratulate her, and never ever partake of this sort of nonsense yourself.
And the Blog Iceberg is my new favouritest concept.
It's something like one doctor per 2000 patients on the NHS in London, and where I live in East London, if you're not a pikey slag with 18 screaming kids covered in cigarette stub sores, you'll never get seen by anyone qualified. But I still need a sick certificate for last week, so I have to make attempt number 7 to get into the place.
In fact, the service is so shit that a while ago, I gave up and had no doctor for a year or two (the old doctor closed his practise and threw all the records away. Without telling me. Yes, I know that's not what they're supposed to do, but you try telling that to the overstuffed dragonish matrons who work the reception areas ... "don't you take that tone with me, missy" is a direct quote.) Didn't notice any difference at all in not having a doctor - it's no more difficult to get an appointment with a doctor who doesn't exist, after all - but then switched |genericjob| and 'doctor's details' is another of those official type things, like next of kin, that they rather worryingly require from you.
[I don't see what it has to do with standing around and being obstructive all day (which is basically what I'm paid for). If you take too much time off and get formal warnings, they only ever believe their doc, not yours, and their doc is waaaay easier to fool. Ooops, giving too much away?]
So anyway, I signed up to a new doctor. First time I went in, I was sick with flu, and underwent the usual barrage of unhelpful barked instructions. They didn't notice the breaking into a cold sweat, and when I began the pre-fainting sway, I got "what's wrong with you?!" Like...um....aren't you supposed to tell me?
Usually, though, it's simply a matter of not allowing you an appointment for the next four years minimum. I used to love receptionists' seething inexpressible hatred when you fix them with a steely eye and calmly say 'emergency'. However, that's a little unfair, so I don't do it anymore, I try to play by their game and their rules.
I stubbed my toe. It keeps bleeding. When can I see a doctor.
You want a nurse.
I want a doctor. When can I see him.
Sigh. Four weeks from now. (This line shortened by sixteen minutes to save bandwidth.)
Nowadays, if it's serious, I just give up on a five hour block of time and go straight to a hospital emergency room with my stubbed toe. The ones with a million red signs outside warning that if you waste their expensive time and resources with something your GP could have dealt with, they'll take legal action. But five hours sat in bits of blood, vom and pee next to a nice old mad tramp who thinks you're Satan is a lot shorter than five weeks of trying to remember that you stubbed your toe.
But you can't get a sick cert from a hospital A&E.
I did try the doctor's surgery last week, when I was more visibly ill than today:
visit one: the surgery is closed.
visit two: the surgery does not take bookings at this time.
visit three: you missed the earlier time, for when the surgery does not need a booking. We only take booked appointments now. No, we have no appointments for you to book.
visit four: it's our two hour long lunch hour. We've pulled down a riot-shutter.
visit five: we've switched our phonelines over to the fax machine. If you're really honestly sick, you'll find a way around this.
visit six: we've decided not to open our evening or weekend surgeries any more. Go away.
Given that I haven't even gained access to the building with any effectiveness yet, the chances look bleak. I've still got to grapple with the dangers posed by Sixteen Year Old Illiterate Receptionist, then make my way up to the battle against the forces of Dragon On Phone, and finally wage war against the Angry Dragon Patently In Love With Doctor Who Wants Him All For Her Sad Frosty Self.
But wait! I spent two days as a doctor's receptionist in Harley Street this summer. What hypocrisy! I chased one paying customer away for being late. Where do I fit into this easy, disgruntled sarcastic diatribe?
Dragon Who Doesn't Give A Fuck.
I'm going back to bed.
Sleepwatch: 5 hours.
Tomorrow, Harvardboy is coming over from Hamburg, so I'll be socialising with him and the ex-DH in the evening. Despite having spent years pointing out to each other that they've known each other longest, he has emailed me to let me know I shan't be automatically dropped. Which was considerate of him, but my current cynicism is so deeply ingrained by now, that I wonder what prompted it. As Vic pointed out, perhaps she intends to sell me half her friends?
Am making real attempts to not allow my sourfaced critical negative nature emerge in public till Thursday. Or Zero Hour, as I've been referring to it.
Sleepwatch: 4.5 hours
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Context: although splitting up with my ex-girlfriend, I've been doing my best to be reasonable. This involves being aloof when the waterworks start, not slagging her off to my friends, and being scrupulous about not blogging anything which would leave either of us feeling bad**.The downside of being reasonable, as Briar pointed out yesterday, is the ensuing feelings of barely suppressed, simmering, near-homicidal rage.
Anyway, so last night I spent the twilight hours visualising limbs being torn apart (John Irving: 'The Fourth Hand' - not at all recommended), then continued the theme into the zzz-hours, with REM functions that involved me standing in front of a terrorist planted time-bomb.
My response to this obvious position of moral authority was to slowly and carefully kill in cold blood six potential bomb -defusers (is defusers a word?). I shot them one by one, and watched them scream and twist as they died.
When two were left, whimpering and crawling to get away, I quite deliberately, and without justification set off a semtex charge against my chest, exploding the incendiary device I was guarding, and killing everything within several miles.
[innocent girly face] Gee, I wonder what that dream means? [ end innocent girly face ]
I think I had better find some more rational way to express the anger I patently can't avoid feeling, before the cats find a premature end.
** I think we can safely say this phase is ending.
Sleepwatch: 3 hours.
You'll what? You'll .... what?
You'll fucking what?
1.) (Being chatted up by gorgeous woman:)
GW: "I remember you, you have really long legs and you dance. Been dancing lately?"
Me: "Yes."
GW: "One syllable answers. Not good."
Me: "Oh."
2.) "The Chapman brothers might be as good as Goya one day. [...] Oh okay, alright, yes, you're right they're talentless and disgusting then. [...] Yeah, they're so over."
3.) "I liked Don Alfonso. I thought he had morals."
4.) (to a Trinidadian friend) "I've decided Trinidadian women are all high maintenance. Don't you agree?"
5.) (to people I don't really know, who had told me Alex Parks had won Fame Academy) "You fucking bastards."
6.) "okay, I'll take the cats."
7.) "I've been a c@#t all summer"
8.) "Your mate over there, has she got some sort of fucking problem? Miserable cow. [...] Oh, your Best Mate? Oh. No, no, she's lovely. Really."
9.) (on being asked if I'd done any dusting at all this summer) "Are you trying to feel fucking superior or something?"
10.) "When are you going to move out?"
11.) (talking to someone I manage about a senior manager) "FFS, stupid bitch. What's the difference? Premenstrual old hag."
(How do you spell m-i-s-j-u-d-g-e-d, again?)
Sleepwatch: 11 [desperate, sweaty, gasping, dehydrated, twisting] hours.
"Before I look at those, I think you should see this. It is thoroughly bad, so naturally I thought of you. URL deleted for being too serious and worthyWell, I think that's fully deserved criticism, particularly about the poo, which I welcome back onto the front page. And I'm sure I didn't mean to drop kick the football onto the main line at Elephant and Castle.
hell, you probably saw it years ago. Never mind. I have to blame this on you, I was very deliberately avoiding the whole blog thing until I became a casual reader of yours (not too sure about the beige/poo combo by the way) (Gotta agree with you there!) and was going to send you one I came across at the weekend - was googling for something and found this really well written diary which reminded me of you and my mate Dave. I also found a reference to myself in it which was just a little freaky. So, I was going to send it to you both, but it was mostly about football so I thought you'd get pissed off, being the only person I know who has attempted to confiscate a football by neatly drop kicking it onto an elevated railway line."
"[I] was also been a cunt during the summer all part and parcel of been memebers of the cunt club and if you've got to be a cunt you've got to be a cunt and thats all there is to it.HOORAY FOR CUNTS"Now I know why I'm so messed up. Rah for strange friends!
Another question solved: who hugs you awake from a nightmare? The droolingcat does. Awww.
I fully intended to go to my |genericjob| today, it would get me out of the house and give me something to conversationalise with my New Best Friends at the opera tomorrow, it would liven up my sad boring life (illustration: I spent last night piddling my pants laughing at all of Eurotrash's archived posts), and the exhaustion that |genericjob| usually induces would mean I got enough sleep tonight. (see, if I'm going out with crowds of lesbians on Saturday, the chances of me staying up till 5am Friday night, drinking myself stupid and then looking like Peggy Mitchell on a bad day are increased tenfold. My avoidance tactics are so predictable they've actually become repetitious.)
Plus, |genericwankercolleagues| might actually have been grateful.
I had at least attempted to prove my independence and sanity by walking to the corner shop for some tuna, last night (first time out of the house since Sunday), and felt distinctly unwell. It didn't help that it's Freshers week at QMW, so everybody else in the shop has New Funky Jeans, New Funky Trainers, New Funky Backpack, and makes desperately friendly eye contact for just that little bit too long. Always peps you up to wander, snot-nosed and stringy-haired into an impromptu episode of Dawsons Creek. I tried not to linger by the Pot Noodle, for fear of being sucked into an undergraduate puppy-eyed vortex. Bad enough the first time round.
So I did intend to go and work. The intention was about all that was left. I admit now that it was a bad idea to get pissed in the bath at midnight, not do any of the reading I need, piss about laughing at udate on MSN till about 2am, or to sit up playing with cats who kept fighting over bed-hogging cat-puddle formations till 3am.
The alarm went off at 4.30, ready for me to spring into the required reading. Predictable response.
Woke up again at 8am, which is the time I'm supposed to be pulling the car into the gates at |genericjob| and hastily rang in, to do the crappy 'weak as a flea' voice, not really assisted by my bloody phone zoning in and out of its near-death trance-like state. Causing me to yell in time honoured lusty fashion "can you hear me now?"
Oh well. They thanked me. I got guilts for a full ten seconds till I realised now I need a doctor's cert.
Sleepwatch: 6 hours
Yidaho fried her kitten. I call that mean-spirited. Ickle puddy.
I weigh: 68.5kg.
An entire tub of Ben and Jerry's and all the fried food / custard / biscuits I can fit down the hatch = only 0.1 kg of pud. I think I inadvertently Atkinised it. Gah.
Quelle horreur! Pacman fait le sexe avec sa soeur!
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Card 1:
basic legal right
democratic society
justice in an unjust world
the 21st century
shoulder to shoulder
Card 2:
full defence counsel
benchmark
settle for nothing less
innocent people
as it is, not as it was seen
Card 3:
tyrannical
freedom of choice
18 years of Tory rule
succeeded for years
sexing up
Card 4:
the Euro does not need sexing up for me
no matter what you think of Margaret Thatcher
aims of equality and opportunity
we must be realistic
not just in the UK, not just in Europe
Card 5:
er, er, er
could everyone sit down for the moment
conference I invite you to consider
i fear disastrous consequences for the whole world
sisters!
Card 6:
lift three hundred million people out of poverty
it was great ....... to hear ....... that
this is crucial
getting ready and getting organised
the US would not concede
Card 7:
outward looking internationalism
UK must bear some of the blame
the courage to choose
reformed more deeply
this is a crunch time
Favourite part so far: The super-swish stylised bigscreen video speech (ie, no big hitters could be bothered to be present in person) to memorialise Michael Foot.
Camera 2 cuts to the ever less than photogenic Foot, and the old duffer isn't watching, he's intently scratching his arse.
That's what I call spin.
This was originally going to be called 'Things About Me That Seem Blokeish'**, till lemonpillows messaged me on MSN and said it sounded more like a mission statement.**That probably just reveals how little lesbians actually know about blokes....
Brushing my teeth and commiserating on the hard life I lead, I noticed that my lips are chafed. Strange. Was I attacking my own lips in the night, in a furious search for solace? Or did the bloody cat have at me with her claws when I missed the alarm again?
Aaaaaaaaanyway, as lemonpillows says, by this morning I had no memory whatsoever of what I'd ordered, just that it had taken four long, infuriating hours to do it, and that it had cost a bomb. Oh, and that I'd been drunkenly upbraided by ex-DH for not ordering her favourite brand of toothpaste (Bad Mexican Maid: but stuff it, when she pays for any of the food she eats, she can claim priority in toothpaste branding). Cue about eighty bulging carrier bags and one Nice Man who didn't mind carrying them up to the third floor ("it's my job miss" - bloody hell, the whole concept of 'uncomplaining' was enough to shock me from my stupor - I hadn't even tried The Ankle Excuse).
And --- praise --- benedicite --- gramercy to my Sick Self: I'd ordered everything a Sick Person could possibly require. No, not that sort of Sick!
Nine bottles of very expensive wine (shameful!);
Eighty-two sadbastardreadymeals (including five variants of Ocean Pie);
Four pots of ice cream (three low fat, one B&J Cookies n Cream, currently sinking into an insatiable hollow) (ie. my face);
Deep Heat anaesthetising sprain spray (yay! just in case there really was a sprain, which, dammit, there is) (Note to self: do not spray on face, even if depressed);
A billion English apples (that's the sort of thing I always presume will make me healthy - conveniently forgetting you have to eat them as well)
Great toast-making bread, crumpets, choccy biccies;
Quaker oats (so I can imagine a warm orange glow from the 1970s, protecting me from harm);
Every type of continental cheese I can eat (none of which would go into a fondue, but hell, I can work my way up) (sorry to Dave for the frequent references to cheese of late!);
Eggs! For the frying of! With Beans! and Toast!
Some German salami (to enable me to make my favourite salami and grilled feta sandwich, yay).
CNPS: 20
I weigh: 68.4kg (lemme see how much I can gain by tonight... hehehe)
The Gender Genie algorithm still says my blog is male. Dammit!!!!
Not only is my nose running onto the keyboard, the cats are heat-seeking missiles (ie, pestering me constantly to sleep on my shoulder), and I emanated noxious fluid onto the sofa.
Further humiliation was to arrive when I tried to simultaneously uncross legs, avoid leaning on either cats, hop over PC, navigate items strewn across the furry rug, and take back to the kitchen the remains of an old sweetcorn tin (all the better for chucking up later) (I've degraded one day beneath sadbastardreadymeal).
Note to self: do not jump over things while carrying breakables when your leg has gone dead.
Landed fairly effectively, although with loud cracking sound as dead leg failed to hold upright, keeling me totally over, and pitching the contents of my sweetcorn tin everybloodywhere.
Spent five good minutes rolling around the rug ... clutching leg ... screaming ... waving off nosey cats (for whom this constitutes almost as much excitement as a litter change) ... screaming a bit more for effect. Then thought about it a bit, and realised I still couldn't feel my leg below the ankle.
This could of course mean that it was hanging by a thread. Tried a few more tentative screams, and felt to see if foot was still attached. Screamed instinctively when I touched it, and again a few times in case it hurt.
Decided to sprawl on the floor choking in putrefied sweetcorn juice, mangled limbs dangling until I starved to death and THEN the world would be sorry, but I became bored.
After a few seconds, the feeling came back to my leg, and I got up and cleared the sweetcorn away.
I swear I heard it crack.