Friday, 30 January 2009
cancelled
Arriving at brixton academy for The Streets gig last night I encountered the usual ticket touts shouting at the people exiting the tube station. They're crafty buggers. Even more so because just round the corner the venue lay in darkness, crowds gathering then turning away in waves, two men in flourescent coats at the centre of it all. A power cut was to blame, apparently. That's annoying. Bets on for it being rescheduled for next week while i'm on holiday? Well, i've got a cold coming, snow likely to ground a plane at Gatwick is imminent, so I'd say the chances are pretty high...
Wednesday, 28 January 2009
Shortsightedness no optician can fix
It took me an hour and a half to get into work this morning.
Every road I turned onto had a traffic jam.
Interesting stuff, no?
No.
...
In other news,
"Oh, and we almost made it through this year without any pregnancies" was the sentiment flying around The Little School of Horrors yesterday.
A girl, one with eyes that give better evils than any character on Eastenders, is pregnant.
Put aside any cliches, any generalisations and any knowledge of Britain's benefit system you may have procured after 4 years of daytime TV and Jeremy Kyle; the first time you hear a 15 year old girl say that she's having a baby in order to get a house will shock you. You're eyes will shut, you will sigh, shake your head. We know it happens, but to hear that the words have been said, to know who said them and to see her through the window, rolling up and lighting a cigarette with her school mates is another thing entirely.
Every road I turned onto had a traffic jam.
Interesting stuff, no?
No.
...
In other news,
"Oh, and we almost made it through this year without any pregnancies" was the sentiment flying around The Little School of Horrors yesterday.
A girl, one with eyes that give better evils than any character on Eastenders, is pregnant.
Put aside any cliches, any generalisations and any knowledge of Britain's benefit system you may have procured after 4 years of daytime TV and Jeremy Kyle; the first time you hear a 15 year old girl say that she's having a baby in order to get a house will shock you. You're eyes will shut, you will sigh, shake your head. We know it happens, but to hear that the words have been said, to know who said them and to see her through the window, rolling up and lighting a cigarette with her school mates is another thing entirely.
Monday, 26 January 2009
What not to say on a monday morning
You lot are all closet cat bloggers. Get your feline fix somewhere else, perverts.
*************
Onwards.
*************
I tell you what, right - at work there's this bloke, Boris. My age, married, met his wife at uni, now a youth worker at the Little School of Horrors. Introductions out the way, today he committed the cardinal sin against young women everywhere, particularly those who drive to work and therefore don't bother with the full scale make up / doing hair bit of getting ready in the morning. A bit of Touche Eclat (if you're lucky) and hey, ho, hey ho, it's off up the M1 we go.
Upon arrival in school, Boris did his usual "Hello madam" greeting around the doorway of my office, and asked how I was.
"I'm alllrigghhht" replied I, rubbing my eyes in manner of young whippersnapper at 8:30am. And that's when he said it.
"You look tired"
I glared back.
"Boris!"
"What?" he answered, confusion evident.
"You should NEVER say that."
"Why?"
Here's why. Don't tell a girl she looks tired. If she looks tired, she feels tired, which means she's grumpy and will not take kindly to anything apart from the words "You are an amazing, beautiful star-like being this morning".
That, and she's probably tried to make herself not look tired. She will have attempted to cover up the puffs and bags under her eyes and whilst doing so, will be fully aware that attacking The Bags is generally futile. She may have even put eye cream on the night before and that morning to hide the evidence, convincing herself that Clinique actually works.
Telling a girl she looks tired in the morning is like pointing out a spot. We know it's there, we've tried to put concealer on it, but we've had a squeeze and the bugger's just turned a funny, scabby, mottled purple colour instead. What we'd really prefer is if everyone ignored it the way we couldn't, and not ask if we'd like some Zovirax for that nasty coldsore.
Telling a girl she looks tired achieves nothing. It doesn't make her not tired. Being tired is not something you can fix without a dark room, two slices of cucumber, a pillow and a duvet. Telling someone they look tired when they are in bed is fine. Doing it when they are up, out and at work is not. All the make up in the world cannot reduce puffy eyes, but the fact that she has tried says it all.
Yet still - people all around the world, every single day, tell other people they look tired.
Don't. Ask Boris. It's just not worth it.
*************
Onwards.
*************
I tell you what, right - at work there's this bloke, Boris. My age, married, met his wife at uni, now a youth worker at the Little School of Horrors. Introductions out the way, today he committed the cardinal sin against young women everywhere, particularly those who drive to work and therefore don't bother with the full scale make up / doing hair bit of getting ready in the morning. A bit of Touche Eclat (if you're lucky) and hey, ho, hey ho, it's off up the M1 we go.
Upon arrival in school, Boris did his usual "Hello madam" greeting around the doorway of my office, and asked how I was.
"I'm alllrigghhht" replied I, rubbing my eyes in manner of young whippersnapper at 8:30am. And that's when he said it.
"You look tired"
I glared back.
"Boris!"
"What?" he answered, confusion evident.
"You should NEVER say that."
"Why?"
Here's why. Don't tell a girl she looks tired. If she looks tired, she feels tired, which means she's grumpy and will not take kindly to anything apart from the words "You are an amazing, beautiful star-like being this morning".
That, and she's probably tried to make herself not look tired. She will have attempted to cover up the puffs and bags under her eyes and whilst doing so, will be fully aware that attacking The Bags is generally futile. She may have even put eye cream on the night before and that morning to hide the evidence, convincing herself that Clinique actually works.
Telling a girl she looks tired in the morning is like pointing out a spot. We know it's there, we've tried to put concealer on it, but we've had a squeeze and the bugger's just turned a funny, scabby, mottled purple colour instead. What we'd really prefer is if everyone ignored it the way we couldn't, and not ask if we'd like some Zovirax for that nasty coldsore.
Telling a girl she looks tired achieves nothing. It doesn't make her not tired. Being tired is not something you can fix without a dark room, two slices of cucumber, a pillow and a duvet. Telling someone they look tired when they are in bed is fine. Doing it when they are up, out and at work is not. All the make up in the world cannot reduce puffy eyes, but the fact that she has tried says it all.
Yet still - people all around the world, every single day, tell other people they look tired.
Don't. Ask Boris. It's just not worth it.
Sunday, 25 January 2009
I swear, ipso facto this isn't some "omg my cat is so funny" blog - because other people's cats are not interesting
...and personally, there's nothing more boring than a blog littered with, err, cat litter. In fact, once I read a blog (for precisely one minute) which was about a bloke AND HIS CAT and I have never clicked an "x" and "unsubscribe" with more vigor. Dogs, on the other hand, now they can hold their own on a website. Cats need some sort of caption. You have to know a cat in order to find whatever it's doing vaguely interesting or amusing, so why people insist on making them a staple part of their public blogs is beyond me.
But - shit the bed, right - I came so close today.
My mum came into my room all "BAHAHAHHAA come and look at the cat!" and I'm thinking, I'm well comfy on my beanbag watching Eastenders, this better be good, this better rival the time she fell in the bin when we were taking the rubbish out. So all three of us, mum, dad and myself, went trundling into the spare room for a game of "what mischievous jaunt is that cat up to now" and to cut a long story short, she was curled up in my empty ski boot bag.
Now for some inane reason, I grabbed my camera phone. I snapped not one, but THREE photos of the cat in my Salomon boot bag. Then I skipped back into my room and bluetoothed them to my laptop. I opened up a new blog post. Ladies and gents, if we're going to be honest, I'm embarrassed just typing this. This post was so nearly a picture of my boot bag, then the cat in my boot bag and some crap, quirky sentence like "Looks like I'm not the only one who can't wait to go skiing" - that I'm ashamed to admit how close I actually came.
My cat is cool, funny and interesting...to me. Your cat is cool, funny and interesting...to you. Let's not pretend our cats will entertain each other.
Sorry. Let's move on.
But - shit the bed, right - I came so close today.
My mum came into my room all "BAHAHAHHAA come and look at the cat!" and I'm thinking, I'm well comfy on my beanbag watching Eastenders, this better be good, this better rival the time she fell in the bin when we were taking the rubbish out. So all three of us, mum, dad and myself, went trundling into the spare room for a game of "what mischievous jaunt is that cat up to now" and to cut a long story short, she was curled up in my empty ski boot bag.
Now for some inane reason, I grabbed my camera phone. I snapped not one, but THREE photos of the cat in my Salomon boot bag. Then I skipped back into my room and bluetoothed them to my laptop. I opened up a new blog post. Ladies and gents, if we're going to be honest, I'm embarrassed just typing this. This post was so nearly a picture of my boot bag, then the cat in my boot bag and some crap, quirky sentence like "Looks like I'm not the only one who can't wait to go skiing" - that I'm ashamed to admit how close I actually came.
My cat is cool, funny and interesting...to me. Your cat is cool, funny and interesting...to you. Let's not pretend our cats will entertain each other.
Sorry. Let's move on.
Thursday, 22 January 2009
Know what I mean?
These kids, these kids, these kids.
Some of them have parents who care. Some of them have parents who don't care. Some of them don't have parents and live in care.
All of them are given individual attention and timetables, all of them have dedicated key workers, a system around them which won't let them fail like the other schools they've been to. All of them are given access to a place, perhaps the one place they have, where people don't tell them to sod off.
The Little School of Horrors gives them breakfast, a chance to get frustrations off their chest, fag breaks, and an education. Those who aren't academic can do construction, or beauty, or a driving course. All get a chance to do GCSEs or equivalents. One or two get a taxi home to ensure their attendance and safety.
All they have to do is turn up. Follow basic rules.
This week there were 4 exclusions and today alone I made 3 phone calls to parents about behaviour, and another 3 calls to chase those who didn't turn up. Given the amount of pupils the Little School has on a day to day basis, this is a lot.
The worst thing is when the parents lie on behalf of their children. Or worse still, when there is no way of contacting the parents at all. Phones permanently turned off. Phones disconnected. Voicemails unanswered.
My feelings switch from being angry at these 14, 15 and 16 yr olds for not realising how lucky they are to have this centre; to feeling sad because in some respects, they're really not that lucky at all. Angry again when they're hammering on walls, running about, shouting, not getting on with work. Feeling sad again when you call a parent and they're exasperated, worn down and in tears. Feeling happy when you can see a student's making an effort, or you have a conversation with one of them and realise in the short time you've been there, you've earnt a bit of their trust.
It's tiring, this admin lark.
Some of them have parents who care. Some of them have parents who don't care. Some of them don't have parents and live in care.
All of them are given individual attention and timetables, all of them have dedicated key workers, a system around them which won't let them fail like the other schools they've been to. All of them are given access to a place, perhaps the one place they have, where people don't tell them to sod off.
The Little School of Horrors gives them breakfast, a chance to get frustrations off their chest, fag breaks, and an education. Those who aren't academic can do construction, or beauty, or a driving course. All get a chance to do GCSEs or equivalents. One or two get a taxi home to ensure their attendance and safety.
All they have to do is turn up. Follow basic rules.
This week there were 4 exclusions and today alone I made 3 phone calls to parents about behaviour, and another 3 calls to chase those who didn't turn up. Given the amount of pupils the Little School has on a day to day basis, this is a lot.
The worst thing is when the parents lie on behalf of their children. Or worse still, when there is no way of contacting the parents at all. Phones permanently turned off. Phones disconnected. Voicemails unanswered.
My feelings switch from being angry at these 14, 15 and 16 yr olds for not realising how lucky they are to have this centre; to feeling sad because in some respects, they're really not that lucky at all. Angry again when they're hammering on walls, running about, shouting, not getting on with work. Feeling sad again when you call a parent and they're exasperated, worn down and in tears. Feeling happy when you can see a student's making an effort, or you have a conversation with one of them and realise in the short time you've been there, you've earnt a bit of their trust.
It's tiring, this admin lark.
Monday, 19 January 2009
Keep your receipt
To anyone else, the scraps of paper I found in the pockets and folds of my wallet the other day would only be fit for the rubbish bin.
In fact, it's only because I was looking for something else completely that I found and read them instead of crumpling the bits into a ball and chucking it all away.
That's the thing with wallets, they collect things. Unfortunately not money a lot of the time, but little bits and pieces that we pick up and find again once every few months when you're turning your bag inside out looking for that prescription / fiver / card that you know you had the other day.
So there they were in front of me, crumpled and folded, two receipts with completely conflicting memories attached.
The first one was from the Health Spa we went to for our birthdays; the ink fading fast but the price and date still visible. It had seemed so important to me that we went away together that weekend. I could feel things falling apart and I felt it could be an aid to remembering why we were together, to get us back on track. It was an amazing weekend, perfect in every way, away from everything, just me and him.
According to the next slip of paper, just over 2 weeks later we went for a meal in an Italian restaurant on Wandsworth Bridge Road. It cost £25.80 and we left at 21:29, having spent an hour or so talking and laughing; me showing him texts on my old phone from when we first got together and joking "look at all the kisses I got at the end of messages back then! bah!". Then we wondered back to his house where I got ready to drive back home, but in private, something had changed. He wouldn't hug me goodbye; a reluctance to have close contact with me. In my mind, he was being selfish; I was tired and had a 40minute drive home and all he wanted to do was show me videos on his computer.
I got frustrated and went to his front door, where he eventually followed me and gave me the sort of hug you'd give a leper; hands in pockets, head lightly resting on my shoulder for a couple of seconds. I remember saying something like "Why can't you act like you love me?" which in hindsight seems a strange thing to have said. It elicited a shrug, so I went to my car, got in and started the engine. He walked towards it and my heart leapt for a split second; he was going to open the car door and apologise, kiss me, anything - but instead he began motioning that I had plenty of space to reverse. I sped off, angry, hurt and confused.
The next day I wrote this.
"Please keep this receipt for your records" it says at the bottom of both receipts. What if your records aren't merely financial? I'd almost forgotten about this night, and here was a little bit of paper reminding me. There's no record of the talk a few days later, the awful next day, the final break up.
But that receipt, that's from the night I was still in a relationship and he was just being an arse. We weren't going to break up, we'd just had an amazing weekend together. This was just another one of those things we'd shove under the carpet. That receipt's date stamp is from when he was still the one I was going to be with til I was old and grey, there were just things we had to get through first.
And just like that - two bits of paper with nothing on them but numbers had a different kind of value, so I folded them up again and put them back. I'm not entirely sure why.
In fact, it's only because I was looking for something else completely that I found and read them instead of crumpling the bits into a ball and chucking it all away.
That's the thing with wallets, they collect things. Unfortunately not money a lot of the time, but little bits and pieces that we pick up and find again once every few months when you're turning your bag inside out looking for that prescription / fiver / card that you know you had the other day.
So there they were in front of me, crumpled and folded, two receipts with completely conflicting memories attached.
The first one was from the Health Spa we went to for our birthdays; the ink fading fast but the price and date still visible. It had seemed so important to me that we went away together that weekend. I could feel things falling apart and I felt it could be an aid to remembering why we were together, to get us back on track. It was an amazing weekend, perfect in every way, away from everything, just me and him.
According to the next slip of paper, just over 2 weeks later we went for a meal in an Italian restaurant on Wandsworth Bridge Road. It cost £25.80 and we left at 21:29, having spent an hour or so talking and laughing; me showing him texts on my old phone from when we first got together and joking "look at all the kisses I got at the end of messages back then! bah!". Then we wondered back to his house where I got ready to drive back home, but in private, something had changed. He wouldn't hug me goodbye; a reluctance to have close contact with me. In my mind, he was being selfish; I was tired and had a 40minute drive home and all he wanted to do was show me videos on his computer.
I got frustrated and went to his front door, where he eventually followed me and gave me the sort of hug you'd give a leper; hands in pockets, head lightly resting on my shoulder for a couple of seconds. I remember saying something like "Why can't you act like you love me?" which in hindsight seems a strange thing to have said. It elicited a shrug, so I went to my car, got in and started the engine. He walked towards it and my heart leapt for a split second; he was going to open the car door and apologise, kiss me, anything - but instead he began motioning that I had plenty of space to reverse. I sped off, angry, hurt and confused.
The next day I wrote this.
"Please keep this receipt for your records" it says at the bottom of both receipts. What if your records aren't merely financial? I'd almost forgotten about this night, and here was a little bit of paper reminding me. There's no record of the talk a few days later, the awful next day, the final break up.
But that receipt, that's from the night I was still in a relationship and he was just being an arse. We weren't going to break up, we'd just had an amazing weekend together. This was just another one of those things we'd shove under the carpet. That receipt's date stamp is from when he was still the one I was going to be with til I was old and grey, there were just things we had to get through first.
And just like that - two bits of paper with nothing on them but numbers had a different kind of value, so I folded them up again and put them back. I'm not entirely sure why.
Friday, 16 January 2009
I'm trying to find myself
For some reason the other day I remembered something. I can't remember how I remembered it, if that makes sense, but lets just say it popped into my head on it's own. And ever since, it's been bugging me.
Here's the thing. Years ago, I think it was before I started uni, way before the word 'blog' was even on my radar, I had a sort of online diary. I say 'sort of', because I don't think I used it very often or ever revealed anything that you'd want to have a sneak peek of. As you probably already know, I've kept a written diary since I was about 5 so that's where all the really juicy stuff goes - this would just have been something for when I was bored.
I tried to remember what website it had been on, and Open Diary seemed familiar so I clicked onto it and tried to log in. That's where the 'bugging me' bit comes in. I can nooooo remember my log in or password. I can noooooo remember the email address I was using back then. I can nooooooooooooo remember the title I gave the 'diary'. But it's on there...somewhere. I just have no idea where.
Now I've gone a good couple of years without accessing it, and no doubt it will be a huge disappointment and void of any real revelations. But blimey, it's so annoying knowing that there's a little bit of my life floating around on the internet somewhere, shrouded under a mysterious nickname I'd have given myself to prevent someone trying to find it. I clearly never thought I'd need to find it.
Anyway - what I really should be doing is researching a travel piece, and this is where you may be able to help. If anyone who reads this is from Philadelphia or knows it, or has been there on holiday and can recommend places to eat, sleep, drink or stay - I could do with some starting points.
Onwards into the weekend...meep meep.
Here's the thing. Years ago, I think it was before I started uni, way before the word 'blog' was even on my radar, I had a sort of online diary. I say 'sort of', because I don't think I used it very often or ever revealed anything that you'd want to have a sneak peek of. As you probably already know, I've kept a written diary since I was about 5 so that's where all the really juicy stuff goes - this would just have been something for when I was bored.
I tried to remember what website it had been on, and Open Diary seemed familiar so I clicked onto it and tried to log in. That's where the 'bugging me' bit comes in. I can nooooo remember my log in or password. I can noooooo remember the email address I was using back then. I can nooooooooooooo remember the title I gave the 'diary'. But it's on there...somewhere. I just have no idea where.
Now I've gone a good couple of years without accessing it, and no doubt it will be a huge disappointment and void of any real revelations. But blimey, it's so annoying knowing that there's a little bit of my life floating around on the internet somewhere, shrouded under a mysterious nickname I'd have given myself to prevent someone trying to find it. I clearly never thought I'd need to find it.
Anyway - what I really should be doing is researching a travel piece, and this is where you may be able to help. If anyone who reads this is from Philadelphia or knows it, or has been there on holiday and can recommend places to eat, sleep, drink or stay - I could do with some starting points.
Onwards into the weekend...meep meep.
Wednesday, 14 January 2009
Ridiculous.
The gym, yesterday.
Waiting in front of me at the coffee bar is a woman who is evidently a regular at my sports club. Probably the owner of one of many huge black Land Rovers parked outside, hot pink manicured fingers, sleek short brown hair. Tennis racket resting against bronzed legs. Kids with the au pair. Mouth moving at 100mph on an orange face, often found talking loudly to all the other middle aged ladies who are lucky enough to work the kind of hours which allow an afternoon of racquet sports. On first name terms with the staff (only the important ones) and is taking up valuable space in front of the bar talking to one as I approach.
She pauses her drivel long enough to order a drink.
"I'll have a hot chocolate with skimmed milk, in a small cup, no cream and oh, no froth." she says, loudly, turning round to check who's heard her.
I smile at how ridiculous she is. She laughs at how clever she's being.
Which bozo invented the Skinny Hot Chocolate?
More to the point, what kind of bozo bothers to order one?
Hot chocolates were made so that all the skinny latte drinkers can have some fun once in a while; to be drunk with cream and marshmallows adorning the top.
Skimmed - milk - no - cream. Who's she kidding. That won't make her happy.
Waiting in front of me at the coffee bar is a woman who is evidently a regular at my sports club. Probably the owner of one of many huge black Land Rovers parked outside, hot pink manicured fingers, sleek short brown hair. Tennis racket resting against bronzed legs. Kids with the au pair. Mouth moving at 100mph on an orange face, often found talking loudly to all the other middle aged ladies who are lucky enough to work the kind of hours which allow an afternoon of racquet sports. On first name terms with the staff (only the important ones) and is taking up valuable space in front of the bar talking to one as I approach.
She pauses her drivel long enough to order a drink.
"I'll have a hot chocolate with skimmed milk, in a small cup, no cream and oh, no froth." she says, loudly, turning round to check who's heard her.
I smile at how ridiculous she is. She laughs at how clever she's being.
Which bozo invented the Skinny Hot Chocolate?
More to the point, what kind of bozo bothers to order one?
Hot chocolates were made so that all the skinny latte drinkers can have some fun once in a while; to be drunk with cream and marshmallows adorning the top.
Skimmed - milk - no - cream. Who's she kidding. That won't make her happy.
Monday, 12 January 2009
"Leave it to me, I'll do it..."
....are words you will seldom hear me say again after this week.
Just before Christmas, two friends of mine from ski and snowboard club at uni (The Twins) created an event on facebook to get a group together for a ski holiday. Out of the 40 or so people invited (including the ex boyfriend, who thankfully declared himself 'not attending' - that could have been difficult) 10 of us were interested, 8 seriously. The number then dropped to seven, a tricky number to deal with, and with time ticking ever closer to the manic, astronomically priced half term week, I decided to take charge.
Just give me definite numbers and a date, I said, and I'll ring around.
Hours were spent scouring the internet for deals, ringing ski companies, comparing, emailing and bargaining. Several pages of my notebook later, and we had a deal lined up. £419pp for flights, transfers, self catering accommodation in Val D'Isere and lift pass.
I call Twin G to alert the troops. He calls back. "Ah, slight problem. One girl can't make that date any more. Can we try the week after?"
Seriously. Frustrated wasn't the word: someone else is arranging a holiday and you don't think to let anyone know that the dates no longer suit?
"Twin G, the next week is just before half term, there's only one apartment left and nothing the week after. We won't get it this cheap. If she drops out, the price goes up for the rest of us. And nice of her to let us know! Besides, we have 6 people who can make that date. Go see what you can do. If the dates change, I'm not doing the ringing around this time. It's taken hours. Go tell her."
Minutes matter in this game. The economy may be tumbling, but so's the snow and the prices and everyone's out to get them, recession or not.
Eventually he calls back "Right, good news - we're all back on. I'll call the agent and sort it."
The next call comes in. "Good news and bad news. The deal's still there...but now there's only 5 seats left on the flight. Good news, the agent found something better"
And so it was that after a week of searching for the a cheap ski holiday for 8, then 7, then 6, then 7 people: we found it.
We're going to Serre Chevalier in France, staying in a self catering apartment (which at full capacity will probably be like living in a sardine can, but no matter), with flights, transfers, and lift pass....for £335.
Super noodles, pasta and tins of beans at the ready - hey ho, hey ho, it's off to the snow we go. Thank you, skideals.co.uk. And strangely enough, I don't feel an 'events organiser' career beckoning...
Just before Christmas, two friends of mine from ski and snowboard club at uni (The Twins) created an event on facebook to get a group together for a ski holiday. Out of the 40 or so people invited (including the ex boyfriend, who thankfully declared himself 'not attending' - that could have been difficult) 10 of us were interested, 8 seriously. The number then dropped to seven, a tricky number to deal with, and with time ticking ever closer to the manic, astronomically priced half term week, I decided to take charge.
Just give me definite numbers and a date, I said, and I'll ring around.
Hours were spent scouring the internet for deals, ringing ski companies, comparing, emailing and bargaining. Several pages of my notebook later, and we had a deal lined up. £419pp for flights, transfers, self catering accommodation in Val D'Isere and lift pass.
I call Twin G to alert the troops. He calls back. "Ah, slight problem. One girl can't make that date any more. Can we try the week after?"
Seriously. Frustrated wasn't the word: someone else is arranging a holiday and you don't think to let anyone know that the dates no longer suit?
"Twin G, the next week is just before half term, there's only one apartment left and nothing the week after. We won't get it this cheap. If she drops out, the price goes up for the rest of us. And nice of her to let us know! Besides, we have 6 people who can make that date. Go see what you can do. If the dates change, I'm not doing the ringing around this time. It's taken hours. Go tell her."
Minutes matter in this game. The economy may be tumbling, but so's the snow and the prices and everyone's out to get them, recession or not.
Eventually he calls back "Right, good news - we're all back on. I'll call the agent and sort it."
The next call comes in. "Good news and bad news. The deal's still there...but now there's only 5 seats left on the flight. Good news, the agent found something better"
And so it was that after a week of searching for the a cheap ski holiday for 8, then 7, then 6, then 7 people: we found it.
We're going to Serre Chevalier in France, staying in a self catering apartment (which at full capacity will probably be like living in a sardine can, but no matter), with flights, transfers, and lift pass....for £335.
Super noodles, pasta and tins of beans at the ready - hey ho, hey ho, it's off to the snow we go. Thank you, skideals.co.uk. And strangely enough, I don't feel an 'events organiser' career beckoning...
Sunday, 11 January 2009
AH! London, your reputation precedes you...
I like going out in different areas of London. Sticking to one place is something me and my friends did throughout our teens, but now with the whole of London in easy reach (on the odd days that the underground system is without delays, engineering works and people under trains) we like to try something new.
My mum's reaction to this exploration of foggy London town is amusing and always the same. Upon asking and hearing where I am going, she will without fail reply:
"Oh. Well be careful. People get stabbed in ..........."
Really? As a rule, or just generally?
It's as if by giving me this little golden nugget of information no doubt gleaned from a fortnightly scan of the Daily Mail's front page, that I'm going to put my bag down, remove my make up, put some slippers on, ring my friends and advise a night in front of the fire.
The fact that my mum has probably never been to Clapham North, or Brixton, or Kilburn High Road, doesn't really factor into the equation. No, they're not the shiniest, prettiest or reputable places in the world - but generally me and my friends don't partake in hanging around the streets or drunken goading of the local hoodrats. We get off the tube, walk 5 minutes to a venue, and there we stay until a cab has been booked to take us home.
And so it was that last night, having been asked by my mum where I was off to and I replied that me and 3 others were going to the aforementioned Kilburn High Road (where people get shot, apparently. Guns being the media's weapon of choice this week) that I got the now standard response. Unfortunately, this warning came less than 2 weeks after an pretty grim incident on New Years Eve in our local pub where the manager had been bottled, leaving him in intensive care.
"So we'll get shot in Kilburn in the same way we got stabbed in Clapham North?"
"I didn't say you'd get stabbed in Clapham"
"True, your exact words were a little less specific: 'People get stabbed in Clapham'."
"Well they do."
"Yes, just like people get bottled in our town. Mum, these things happen everywhere. It's not going to stop me going out"
And with that, I left a faintly anxious mother and trundled over to The Good Ship to watch some bands (the main act, a band called Nina, was amazing as ever and deserve a plug. So good every time I see them. Check out 'It's Time' on the myspace page).
We arrived home at 4am and happily, the only thing we injured were our alcohol soaked livers and heads the next morning. Another Sunday spent in my PJs, quaffing Neurofen. Wonderful.
My mum's reaction to this exploration of foggy London town is amusing and always the same. Upon asking and hearing where I am going, she will without fail reply:
"Oh. Well be careful. People get stabbed in ..........."
Really? As a rule, or just generally?
It's as if by giving me this little golden nugget of information no doubt gleaned from a fortnightly scan of the Daily Mail's front page, that I'm going to put my bag down, remove my make up, put some slippers on, ring my friends and advise a night in front of the fire.
The fact that my mum has probably never been to Clapham North, or Brixton, or Kilburn High Road, doesn't really factor into the equation. No, they're not the shiniest, prettiest or reputable places in the world - but generally me and my friends don't partake in hanging around the streets or drunken goading of the local hoodrats. We get off the tube, walk 5 minutes to a venue, and there we stay until a cab has been booked to take us home.
And so it was that last night, having been asked by my mum where I was off to and I replied that me and 3 others were going to the aforementioned Kilburn High Road (where people get shot, apparently. Guns being the media's weapon of choice this week) that I got the now standard response. Unfortunately, this warning came less than 2 weeks after an pretty grim incident on New Years Eve in our local pub where the manager had been bottled, leaving him in intensive care.
"So we'll get shot in Kilburn in the same way we got stabbed in Clapham North?"
"I didn't say you'd get stabbed in Clapham"
"True, your exact words were a little less specific: 'People get stabbed in Clapham'."
"Well they do."
"Yes, just like people get bottled in our town. Mum, these things happen everywhere. It's not going to stop me going out"
And with that, I left a faintly anxious mother and trundled over to The Good Ship to watch some bands (the main act, a band called Nina, was amazing as ever and deserve a plug. So good every time I see them. Check out 'It's Time' on the myspace page).
We arrived home at 4am and happily, the only thing we injured were our alcohol soaked livers and heads the next morning. Another Sunday spent in my PJs, quaffing Neurofen. Wonderful.
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
Back to the grind
After I spent Monday exploring Westfield, London's newest, biggest, shiniest shopping centre, debating Miu Miu bag VS ski trip with my Partner in Breakup (who, it turned out, had actually been so ill after our excesses on Saturday night that she managed to convince her mum that it was the noro virus), it's safe to say being a Lady Wot Lunches was beginning to suit me down to the ground.
But as I returned home later that evening, finger hovering over 'send' on a text which read "Yep, tomorrow sounds great. Cuppa round yours at 1?", my mum dropped the bomb. The new admin assistant at her Little School of Horrors hadn't turned up, could I fill in until the end of the week? "Yeah alright. What time?" Ladies and gents, bombshell number two.
8.30am start.
START. Not get up, not leave the house, START.
And because it involves going out of London, that means a 7:30am lift off time.
Anyway - so I turned up, got shown around (it's a tiny place and houses the kids that no school will take; think two lots of security doors to get in and a sign that reads "hand in your belongings" with a picture of a packet of fags and a hoody tacked to the wall) and placed in my room in front of a computer.
Infinitely more lively than a regular office job working with teachers who wouldn't get through the day without a sense of humour and kids who probably don't leave home without an ASBO, it's actually alright. There's just one minor thing, one itsy bitsy teeny weeny little problemo.
It's my computer.
My INTERNET-FREE computer.
My computer which even SOLITAIRE is absent from.
Where am I? 1990?
And where are we in the bomb shell stakes...ah yes, that was number three, next is number four and my sneaky sneaky sneakster mother, who introduced me to everyone we met as "our new admin assistant!".
"Temporary..." I'd add, wondering why she's grinning. "Mum, you said it was just for the rest of this week"
"Well...until we find someone else"
"Are they actually looking for someone else? Because I'm not doing this for months on end. And I'll need part time hours to write."
We'll sort something out, apparently. TEMPORARY. I remind her. TEMPORARY. Why do I get the feeling that my definition is different from everyone elses?
But as I returned home later that evening, finger hovering over 'send' on a text which read "Yep, tomorrow sounds great. Cuppa round yours at 1?", my mum dropped the bomb. The new admin assistant at her Little School of Horrors hadn't turned up, could I fill in until the end of the week? "Yeah alright. What time?" Ladies and gents, bombshell number two.
8.30am start.
START. Not get up, not leave the house, START.
And because it involves going out of London, that means a 7:30am lift off time.
Anyway - so I turned up, got shown around (it's a tiny place and houses the kids that no school will take; think two lots of security doors to get in and a sign that reads "hand in your belongings" with a picture of a packet of fags and a hoody tacked to the wall) and placed in my room in front of a computer.
Infinitely more lively than a regular office job working with teachers who wouldn't get through the day without a sense of humour and kids who probably don't leave home without an ASBO, it's actually alright. There's just one minor thing, one itsy bitsy teeny weeny little problemo.
It's my computer.
My INTERNET-FREE computer.
My computer which even SOLITAIRE is absent from.
Where am I? 1990?
And where are we in the bomb shell stakes...ah yes, that was number three, next is number four and my sneaky sneaky sneakster mother, who introduced me to everyone we met as "our new admin assistant!".
"Temporary..." I'd add, wondering why she's grinning. "Mum, you said it was just for the rest of this week"
"Well...until we find someone else"
"Are they actually looking for someone else? Because I'm not doing this for months on end. And I'll need part time hours to write."
We'll sort something out, apparently. TEMPORARY. I remind her. TEMPORARY. Why do I get the feeling that my definition is different from everyone elses?
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Sohohohohoho
Having recently declared my need to "party on down", "get on it" and "tit about like we used to", last night four single ladies (including my PIB - Partner in Breakup - a friend whose relationship and employment demise echoes mine) braved the cold and headed out into the West End to put plans into practice. It's all too easy to succumb to the warmth and comfort of a friend's house at this time of year, and although I'm never one to turn down a night in front of the telly with a glass of wine and a pizza, there's only so many 'girlie nights in' a girl can take before cabin fever sets in.
Fantastic, I thought, as we wondered in to a quiet bar off Oxford Street, grabbed a table and a bottle of wine and got chatting. It was a mixed crowd; a few couples here and there, but we were the only group of girls. Even better, I mused, as the bar began to fill up with groups of good looking men. That's nice, I pondered, seeing blokes arriving and meeting other lone drinkers on the surrounding tables.
It took four London born and bred girls longer than it should have done to put two and two together: the perfectly shaped eyebrows of those around us and our close proximity to Old Compton Street, the heart of London's gay scene. Bah.
So we embraced the Soho charm, wormed our way into a club, then after a few tequilas (etc) the two of us still able to function decided to head to Camden. I am reliably informed that my PIB threw up on the night bus home (and again this morning), that another of our party woke up at 11:30am in her own bed but fully clothed down to the shoes, and that I stayed in bed until 5:30pm this evening and have yet to get dressed.
A successful evening all round, in my book.
Fantastic, I thought, as we wondered in to a quiet bar off Oxford Street, grabbed a table and a bottle of wine and got chatting. It was a mixed crowd; a few couples here and there, but we were the only group of girls. Even better, I mused, as the bar began to fill up with groups of good looking men. That's nice, I pondered, seeing blokes arriving and meeting other lone drinkers on the surrounding tables.
It took four London born and bred girls longer than it should have done to put two and two together: the perfectly shaped eyebrows of those around us and our close proximity to Old Compton Street, the heart of London's gay scene. Bah.
So we embraced the Soho charm, wormed our way into a club, then after a few tequilas (etc) the two of us still able to function decided to head to Camden. I am reliably informed that my PIB threw up on the night bus home (and again this morning), that another of our party woke up at 11:30am in her own bed but fully clothed down to the shoes, and that I stayed in bed until 5:30pm this evening and have yet to get dressed.
A successful evening all round, in my book.
Saturday, 3 January 2009
Sorry blog, I'm a liability.
New Year was a little bit mental. I have vague recollections of being pushed along the road in a shopping trolley at half past 3 (woah there rebel), getting to bed at half 6 and, as I have a tendency to do when drunk, giving people clues - yes, clues - about how to find my blog.
Why do I always think thats a good idea when I'm pissed?
Luckily I stopped short of giving the actual web address, although to be honest, had there been another tequila, this blog, it appears, could have been anyones.
So you'll forgive me if things get a little ambiguous around here in the hope that any avid searchers (who, after I admitted to having big old blank spots where the first hours of New Year should have been, in return happily revealed that they "never not remember when drunk". Bastards.) on the google warpath for my online sanctuary might be hindered by lack of information.
I'll the donning the proverbial moustache, beard, wig and glasses for a while.
Shhhhhhh.
If anyone asks, my name is Mungo.
Why do I always think thats a good idea when I'm pissed?
Luckily I stopped short of giving the actual web address, although to be honest, had there been another tequila, this blog, it appears, could have been anyones.
So you'll forgive me if things get a little ambiguous around here in the hope that any avid searchers (who, after I admitted to having big old blank spots where the first hours of New Year should have been, in return happily revealed that they "never not remember when drunk". Bastards.) on the google warpath for my online sanctuary might be hindered by lack of information.
I'll the donning the proverbial moustache, beard, wig and glasses for a while.
Shhhhhhh.
If anyone asks, my name is Mungo.
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