I'm still out in France, and the guilt of leaving to come here instead
of taking the interview for a job left me as soon as I'd finished my
first lap of the pool.
There have been eight of us out here since Wednesday, a mixed group of
20-somethings all relaxing, drinking and partying in the sun.
As the only girl still up the night before last, I joined the four
boys in a game of cards; the rules being that the winner of each round
nominates someone else to finish their drink. The only thing left
after a night of revelry was red wine; a plastic 5 litre cask bought
from the local supermarket for 5 Euros. Surprisingly drinkable (this
is France, it was local produce), we topped up our glasses and begun.
After a few rounds, I came in the winner and had to nominate someone
to finish their drink.
In my infinite wisdom, and I was feeling pretty smart to be honest, I
uttered words that were to become my downfall.
"Urrrr, (burp), there's a loophole! No one said it had to be just one
person! ALL OF YOU DRINK!"
I soon found out that the only problem with making four people down an
entire glass of red wine each...is that you then have 4 people ready
to reap revenge on you.
I lost the next five rounds.
And after a 5am vom-athon wake-up call, I learnt my lesson.
Always stick to spirits.
Monday, 29 June 2009
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Isn't this what they call 'sods law' ?
Three hours ago, I took up a friend's last minute offer of a trip to France. Feeling dejected about the job situation, I booked my flights and packed my bags, ready to leave first thing tomorrow morning.
Three minutes ago, the company I used to work for rings me up, says they got the CV I'd sent their way last week, and could I come in for an interview.
They have a job starting next week.
They need to interview for it this week.
I am not here.
My flights are non-refundable.
They wish they'd called me sooner.
They'll keep me in mind for the next job that comes up.
Everything happens for a reason.
...Right?
Derriere.
Three minutes ago, the company I used to work for rings me up, says they got the CV I'd sent their way last week, and could I come in for an interview.
They have a job starting next week.
They need to interview for it this week.
I am not here.
My flights are non-refundable.
They wish they'd called me sooner.
They'll keep me in mind for the next job that comes up.
Everything happens for a reason.
...Right?
Derriere.
Monday, 22 June 2009
Applying
Seeing as The Writer is AWOL at the moment, doing what travel writers do and err, travelling...I have been applying for jobs.
I hate applying for jobs. Mostly because I'm lazy and in the past have always managed to get a job without going through a lengthy application process. I just sort of end up there and that's that. Usually it's friend of a friend type thing, or unpaid work experience which leads onto something. Recruitment agents have occasionally come through, but the last one looked like Spongebob Squarepants and he doesn't email me his carefully thought out spam emails any more, so I'm going at it alone.
Thing is, I get half way through completing an application form and get bored with trying to not make myself sound like a lemon. At least application forms pretty much tell you what to write though; not like covering letters.
I hate writing covering letters. I hate them more than I hate sandwiches with squishy, cold, wet fillings like tomato. Say what you want, writing a good covering letter is near on impossible, simply because unless you're able to list 'psychic medium' as part of your skillset, there's no knowing what they're after. Add a chatty element and they might think you're not serious enough. Go for the formal touch and you risk sounding like you spend your evenings licking your own reflection on a spoon.
And all that official jobspeak is a bit mental to be honest. It just baffles me, puts me off, "effective communicator", "results driven", all that jazz. If the Apprentice taught me anything, it's not to resort to cliches in your applications (or lie about your references). But the amount of jobs that are advertised with all this HR jargon is ridiculous.
My favourite is "can-do attitude". What, as opposed to a "sod off mate, I can't be arsed" attitude? Surely that's not only a bit of a given, but also highly ambiguous. "Can do" what, exactly? Use a computer? Wipe your own bum? The job you're applying for? Lick your own elbow?
Then there are ones that ask for a photo. They slip the request in at the end, just when you're all enthusiastic about the job and finding out how to apply and thinking 'Yeah, ths one's in the bag'. Then BAM - Please send your CV, Covering letter and a recent photo. What, so you can check I don't have piggy eyes and a toothy grin? Bit dodgy, that. Tell you what, let's swap. You can see me, and I'll have a photo of the entire office so I know who to avoid at the Christmas party.
Salary expectations always get me, too. I don't have a clue what to say when they tell me to specify how much I want to get paid. Seriously, what can I put? "Well, I'm in the habit of working for free - so just throw me some peanuts and we'll call it evens". It's like bloody 'Play Your Cards Right', go to high and you're out. Go too low, and your out. Salary negotiable depending on facial features. I'd love to see that.
I'll be honest, a pat on the head is a salary increase from where I'm standing.
I hate applying for jobs. Mostly because I'm lazy and in the past have always managed to get a job without going through a lengthy application process. I just sort of end up there and that's that. Usually it's friend of a friend type thing, or unpaid work experience which leads onto something. Recruitment agents have occasionally come through, but the last one looked like Spongebob Squarepants and he doesn't email me his carefully thought out spam emails any more, so I'm going at it alone.
Thing is, I get half way through completing an application form and get bored with trying to not make myself sound like a lemon. At least application forms pretty much tell you what to write though; not like covering letters.
I hate writing covering letters. I hate them more than I hate sandwiches with squishy, cold, wet fillings like tomato. Say what you want, writing a good covering letter is near on impossible, simply because unless you're able to list 'psychic medium' as part of your skillset, there's no knowing what they're after. Add a chatty element and they might think you're not serious enough. Go for the formal touch and you risk sounding like you spend your evenings licking your own reflection on a spoon.
And all that official jobspeak is a bit mental to be honest. It just baffles me, puts me off, "effective communicator", "results driven", all that jazz. If the Apprentice taught me anything, it's not to resort to cliches in your applications (or lie about your references). But the amount of jobs that are advertised with all this HR jargon is ridiculous.
My favourite is "can-do attitude". What, as opposed to a "sod off mate, I can't be arsed" attitude? Surely that's not only a bit of a given, but also highly ambiguous. "Can do" what, exactly? Use a computer? Wipe your own bum? The job you're applying for? Lick your own elbow?
Then there are ones that ask for a photo. They slip the request in at the end, just when you're all enthusiastic about the job and finding out how to apply and thinking 'Yeah, ths one's in the bag'. Then BAM - Please send your CV, Covering letter and a recent photo. What, so you can check I don't have piggy eyes and a toothy grin? Bit dodgy, that. Tell you what, let's swap. You can see me, and I'll have a photo of the entire office so I know who to avoid at the Christmas party.
Salary expectations always get me, too. I don't have a clue what to say when they tell me to specify how much I want to get paid. Seriously, what can I put? "Well, I'm in the habit of working for free - so just throw me some peanuts and we'll call it evens". It's like bloody 'Play Your Cards Right', go to high and you're out. Go too low, and your out. Salary negotiable depending on facial features. I'd love to see that.
I'll be honest, a pat on the head is a salary increase from where I'm standing.
Sunday, 21 June 2009
Happy Skivvies Day
It had been an inadvertant late one. Once they realised Leicester Square was still the epic non-event it always has been, the two girls decided against joining the majority for a night of extortionate drinks, rancid ming mongs and posing for potential Facebook profile pictures in Soho dive Penthouse; opting instead for the last train back to their neck of the woods. Back in the local vicinity, the party was just getting started, and they joined other friends out celebrating a birthday. Tequila ensued until 3am. Chatting in the kitchen over falaffal and humous continued until 5am. The sun came up, and the girls bedded down.
We join our famished, hungover pair at 11am on Sunday morning, lying top to tail on a single bed, trying to remember their own names and realising that having money in your wallet after a night out doesn't mean you spent less money, it just means that you were buying rounds that required a card.
"Last night was pretty good actually. Everyone was on form. I'm hungry. You hungry?"
"Yeah. I could eat. Pretty starving. Oh, do you remember getting carried down the ro-"
A raised hand stops me half way through my sentence. I look at my friend, who is leaning down close to the floor and listening carefully. "Hang on" she says. Next thing I know, and she's banging against the wooden bedroom floor with her fist. Stops. Listens. Bangs a few more times.
"What on earth are you doing?" I ask, slightly baffled.
"TWO CUPS OF TEA PLEAAAAASE." she yells, waiting for a response.
Silence. More banging. Footsteps.
"YOU DO KNOW IT'S FATHER'S DAY...." comes a yell from the bottom of the stairs.
"HAPPY FATHER'S DAY. IS THE KETTLE ON? PLEEEEEASE"
Footsteps fade back into the kitchen below us, followed by the sound of running water. Footsteps back to the stairs.
"BOTH WITH SUGAR?"
"YES PLEASE!" we both chorus, "THAAAAANKS!"
I'm laughing my head off. "I love that. Just banging on the floor for a cup of tea. You lazy sod."
She looks at me, grinning. "Haha. Oh that's nothing. Usually I'll just call the house phone from my mobile."
Living at home has it's merits.
PS. Before you send round the "ungrateful daughter" lynch mob, don't worry. She cooked him breakfast.
We join our famished, hungover pair at 11am on Sunday morning, lying top to tail on a single bed, trying to remember their own names and realising that having money in your wallet after a night out doesn't mean you spent less money, it just means that you were buying rounds that required a card.
"Last night was pretty good actually. Everyone was on form. I'm hungry. You hungry?"
"Yeah. I could eat. Pretty starving. Oh, do you remember getting carried down the ro-"
A raised hand stops me half way through my sentence. I look at my friend, who is leaning down close to the floor and listening carefully. "Hang on" she says. Next thing I know, and she's banging against the wooden bedroom floor with her fist. Stops. Listens. Bangs a few more times.
"What on earth are you doing?" I ask, slightly baffled.
"TWO CUPS OF TEA PLEAAAAASE." she yells, waiting for a response.
Silence. More banging. Footsteps.
"YOU DO KNOW IT'S FATHER'S DAY...." comes a yell from the bottom of the stairs.
"HAPPY FATHER'S DAY. IS THE KETTLE ON? PLEEEEEASE"
Footsteps fade back into the kitchen below us, followed by the sound of running water. Footsteps back to the stairs.
"BOTH WITH SUGAR?"
"YES PLEASE!" we both chorus, "THAAAAANKS!"
I'm laughing my head off. "I love that. Just banging on the floor for a cup of tea. You lazy sod."
She looks at me, grinning. "Haha. Oh that's nothing. Usually I'll just call the house phone from my mobile."
Living at home has it's merits.
PS. Before you send round the "ungrateful daughter" lynch mob, don't worry. She cooked him breakfast.
Friday, 19 June 2009
Body Conditioning
Conversation 1
"Well, the thing is...it's just stupid isn't it? I mean, what's the point? There's just no need to even have one is there?"
"Well that's the thing. It just gets in the way, doesn't it? What's the point?"
"Exactly, I mean - the other night they just had a man out there from the time I arrived until the time I left. I don't know why they don't just hire someone to stand there and check the cards on the way out. Just get an elderly man, pay minimum wage; at a time like this they'd be grateful for the job!"
"Mmm yes, exactly."
------
Conversation 2
"It's cooked breakfasts that do it, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes. I mean, especially on holiday. If there's one on offer I'll just eat it! At home it's not a problem, I'll just have some muesli but it's..."
"Yes, well, it's bacon isn't it."
"Well that's it. Bacon. I mean, I take my son to music school on a Saturday morning, and they've just started handing out bacon sandwiches as you go in! It's a nightmare, and he's all oh mummy, get a sandwich, so I have to!"
"Hmmm, but I have found an alternative to cheese. Yes, you can make macaroni cheese with creme fraiche and well, you know it's not as good but with a solid vegetable layer underneath it's almost as tasty."
As I stood outside the doors to Studio 1 at half ten this morning, I had to physically restrain myself from bolting back down the stairs. I'd already missed the 9:30am Pilates Improvers after arriving late. A glance through the Studio 3's windows had revealed a darkened room with green mood lighting and a lycra clad crowd already horizontal on mats. An hour later, back upstairs in the realm of the Exercise Class, it wasn't the prospect of exercise itself that made me want to run far, far away. It was the inane wittering of the gathered women; the whinging, lamenting, dieting crowd yabbering on about alternatives for cheddar cheese and the new code activated barriers that let you in and out of the gym carpark.
At first I kept to myself, standing with my back flat against the wall and earwigging on Conversation 1 and looking around for someone under the age of 40. Next thing I knew, two more women had migrated next to me and were including me in Conversation 2, looking my way for input. I smiled and nodded along, laughing politely in the right places and saying things like "Ooh, yeah, I love cheese". I gathered that apparently it's ok to love cheese, as long as you don't eat it (or at least feel guilty while you do). It appears the endurance test for Body Conditioning starts well before you go through those doors and start prancing around to ABBA remixed.
An hour later; stretched, energised, toned and feeling rather better about myself than when I went in, I treated myself to a banana in the cafe. My phone rang.
"Hellooo, where are you? I'm bored at work."
"I'm at the gym. Just been to body conditioning"
"Eurrrghh, so are you all sweaty? Yuck, bet you are"
"No, well, it was alright actually. Might even go again. Missed pilates so did this one instead..."
"Bloody hell. It's a hard life you've got, isn't it?"
You're telling me. It's Dancercise next week.
"Well, the thing is...it's just stupid isn't it? I mean, what's the point? There's just no need to even have one is there?"
"Well that's the thing. It just gets in the way, doesn't it? What's the point?"
"Exactly, I mean - the other night they just had a man out there from the time I arrived until the time I left. I don't know why they don't just hire someone to stand there and check the cards on the way out. Just get an elderly man, pay minimum wage; at a time like this they'd be grateful for the job!"
"Mmm yes, exactly."
------
Conversation 2
"It's cooked breakfasts that do it, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes. I mean, especially on holiday. If there's one on offer I'll just eat it! At home it's not a problem, I'll just have some muesli but it's..."
"Yes, well, it's bacon isn't it."
"Well that's it. Bacon. I mean, I take my son to music school on a Saturday morning, and they've just started handing out bacon sandwiches as you go in! It's a nightmare, and he's all oh mummy, get a sandwich, so I have to!"
"Hmmm, but I have found an alternative to cheese. Yes, you can make macaroni cheese with creme fraiche and well, you know it's not as good but with a solid vegetable layer underneath it's almost as tasty."
As I stood outside the doors to Studio 1 at half ten this morning, I had to physically restrain myself from bolting back down the stairs. I'd already missed the 9:30am Pilates Improvers after arriving late. A glance through the Studio 3's windows had revealed a darkened room with green mood lighting and a lycra clad crowd already horizontal on mats. An hour later, back upstairs in the realm of the Exercise Class, it wasn't the prospect of exercise itself that made me want to run far, far away. It was the inane wittering of the gathered women; the whinging, lamenting, dieting crowd yabbering on about alternatives for cheddar cheese and the new code activated barriers that let you in and out of the gym carpark.
At first I kept to myself, standing with my back flat against the wall and earwigging on Conversation 1 and looking around for someone under the age of 40. Next thing I knew, two more women had migrated next to me and were including me in Conversation 2, looking my way for input. I smiled and nodded along, laughing politely in the right places and saying things like "Ooh, yeah, I love cheese". I gathered that apparently it's ok to love cheese, as long as you don't eat it (or at least feel guilty while you do). It appears the endurance test for Body Conditioning starts well before you go through those doors and start prancing around to ABBA remixed.
An hour later; stretched, energised, toned and feeling rather better about myself than when I went in, I treated myself to a banana in the cafe. My phone rang.
"Hellooo, where are you? I'm bored at work."
"I'm at the gym. Just been to body conditioning"
"Eurrrghh, so are you all sweaty? Yuck, bet you are"
"No, well, it was alright actually. Might even go again. Missed pilates so did this one instead..."
"Bloody hell. It's a hard life you've got, isn't it?"
You're telling me. It's Dancercise next week.
Thursday, 18 June 2009
When will they invent tracking devices for remote controls?
About 10:15pm last night, I decided I was going to watch television. Maybe Big Brother, followed by Tears, Tiaras and Transsexuals; something to lull me into dreams about how lucky I am not to be an absolute attention whoring reality TV contestant and / or a pretty lady with manbits. Anyway. I got upstairs, switched on the TV and up popped the last channel I'd had on. Which was, apparently, Magic FM.
Now, I love Magic FM as much as the next drunk. In fact, at 3am in a cab home (if it's not on already) I'll actively request that the driver retune his radio into Magic FM's late night love songs; a back to back extravaganza of cheesey, romantic, golden oldies to sing along to before falling asleep until you have reached your destination.
But at 10:15pm on a sober Wednesday night, it's just not what I'm after. I wanted Big Brother, or some choice trash. Well, "want" is a strong word. A "quick sniff" is perhaps more apt. So I glanced about for the remote (can't change the channel without it on my digibox)...which was nowhere to be found. I played the "if I was a remote control, where would I hide?" game. It wasn't in my bed, on my bean bag, behind a speaker or on any cluttered surface. And "Yesterday Once More" by the Carpenters was not helping my plight.
I quickly turned my bedroom into something resembling Beirut circa 1990, scattering clothes, electrical equipment, bed covers and make up bags all over the gaff. No sign. By this point, it wasn't so much that I wanted to watch Big Brother, it was the fact that I couldn't watch Big Brother even if I wanted to. I couldn't watch anything - just the frozen Magic FM logo. I tried my sister's remote control. I switched the box on and off again. No luck. After 20 minutes of solid searching, I eventually found it in my unpacked suitcase, where I'd thrown it the night before. Game over, yes?
No. The damn thing still wouldn't work. The past 20 minutes had made me angry, but now I'm positively fuming. I'm pressing every god damn button on that piece of plastic, and no go. Batteries! Batteries! Now I'm downstairs, trying to find AAA batteries but of course there's none to be found. Eventually I do what any other irate frustrated woman denied her quota of trashy TV would do: went and nicked the ones from my sister's remote. AHA! Victory is mine!
Except it still didn't bloody work.
If there was a frustration richter scale, I'm now completely off the radar. I'm not just angry at not being able to change the channel, I'm pissed off with the makers of the digibox. I'm annoyed at my dad for buying me this model. I'm completely baffled and worse still, Leona Lewis is now crooning at me from the corner, telling me it'll get better with time. OH JESUS.
So I go to the back of my TV. Unplug everything that it's possible to unplug, switch off everything that can be switched off...and wait. Then I turn it all on again. And hey presto! It works. I revel in being able to change the channel, Channel 4 is my oyster.
To summarise:
30 minutes to find the remote.
5 seconds to realise Big Brother is still the vat of steaming silage I'd usually part with an organ to avoid.
Brilliant.
Now, I love Magic FM as much as the next drunk. In fact, at 3am in a cab home (if it's not on already) I'll actively request that the driver retune his radio into Magic FM's late night love songs; a back to back extravaganza of cheesey, romantic, golden oldies to sing along to before falling asleep until you have reached your destination.
But at 10:15pm on a sober Wednesday night, it's just not what I'm after. I wanted Big Brother, or some choice trash. Well, "want" is a strong word. A "quick sniff" is perhaps more apt. So I glanced about for the remote (can't change the channel without it on my digibox)...which was nowhere to be found. I played the "if I was a remote control, where would I hide?" game. It wasn't in my bed, on my bean bag, behind a speaker or on any cluttered surface. And "Yesterday Once More" by the Carpenters was not helping my plight.
I quickly turned my bedroom into something resembling Beirut circa 1990, scattering clothes, electrical equipment, bed covers and make up bags all over the gaff. No sign. By this point, it wasn't so much that I wanted to watch Big Brother, it was the fact that I couldn't watch Big Brother even if I wanted to. I couldn't watch anything - just the frozen Magic FM logo. I tried my sister's remote control. I switched the box on and off again. No luck. After 20 minutes of solid searching, I eventually found it in my unpacked suitcase, where I'd thrown it the night before. Game over, yes?
No. The damn thing still wouldn't work. The past 20 minutes had made me angry, but now I'm positively fuming. I'm pressing every god damn button on that piece of plastic, and no go. Batteries! Batteries! Now I'm downstairs, trying to find AAA batteries but of course there's none to be found. Eventually I do what any other irate frustrated woman denied her quota of trashy TV would do: went and nicked the ones from my sister's remote. AHA! Victory is mine!
Except it still didn't bloody work.
If there was a frustration richter scale, I'm now completely off the radar. I'm not just angry at not being able to change the channel, I'm pissed off with the makers of the digibox. I'm annoyed at my dad for buying me this model. I'm completely baffled and worse still, Leona Lewis is now crooning at me from the corner, telling me it'll get better with time. OH JESUS.
So I go to the back of my TV. Unplug everything that it's possible to unplug, switch off everything that can be switched off...and wait. Then I turn it all on again. And hey presto! It works. I revel in being able to change the channel, Channel 4 is my oyster.
To summarise:
30 minutes to find the remote.
5 seconds to realise Big Brother is still the vat of steaming silage I'd usually part with an organ to avoid.
Brilliant.
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
It's like Ally Mc Beal...but not.
Every so often I partake in a bit of pimp my blog in return for freebies. Now, in the past this has procured me an array of useful bits and bobs, for example scarves, gloves, perfume and err, a solar charger.
This time, I'm hoping the deal is that I'll get some bottled water...and preferably not a slightly deranged dancing baby. Time will tell.
PS. Should I call the NSPCC?
This time, I'm hoping the deal is that I'll get some bottled water...and preferably not a slightly deranged dancing baby. Time will tell.
PS. Should I call the NSPCC?
Bonjour
You know what, I'm convinced that France isn't actually just an hour away. I'm pretty sure that when you step aboard the plane, you actually go through some kind of space / time continuum and actually fly to the other side of the world. Despite learning the language from the age of about 6 until I was 15 - combined with after school tuition and frequent holidays to the country itself, communication in this foreign tongue still completely evades me. Helpfully, the only sentence that remains prominent in my mind is J'ai douze ans (I am twelve).
Once you're actually in France, there's a few things that become immediately apparent. The men consider anything in a skirt fair game. The women consider anything in a skirt competition. Young, greasy haired men in tight trousers yelling incoherent jeers in your direction is enough to make you cringe and tug your skirt down a few centimeters. But when you've got a 70 year old man mumbling lewd French thoughts with an added 'Haw he haw' as you walk down the street, letting their eyes wonder up and down your body, then nudging their mate to do the same - it's enough to make you bloody agoraphobic. Perhaps this is why the streets were mostly empty throughout the day. On Tuesday we dragged ourselves away from the pool and headed into the nearest town at about 11:30am, only to find it completely deserted; the shops closed apart from a few cafes.
When we did find one open, there's nothing like linguistic incompetence to brighten your shopping experience. It's a continual embarrassment to me that I am so inept at basic French conversation when every other person on the continent seems an expert at English. When it came to explaining what it was I needed, I could do nothing but look confused and go "Errr, c'est...err...la..." before using my best drama skills to act it out. And then there's paying. Oh, god - paying. I'd often sort of just thrust a 20 Euro note in the shop keeper's direction and hope for the best, rather than try and figure out exactly what the amount they require is. "Could you say it slowly?" or "Can you write it down?" only ever resulted in them saying the amount again, but faster.
Anyway, so all that's just my way of saying that instead of practicing my French, mingling with the locals and spending lots of money in their shops, we mostly stayed at the house, ate copious amounts of cheese, tasted the local produce from the surrounding vineyards and err, flopped by the pool. All day. Sometimes all you need in life is a good book (or a stack of four, in my case), some sun cream and a box set of The Wire.
Et voila, mon vacation fin.
Once you're actually in France, there's a few things that become immediately apparent. The men consider anything in a skirt fair game. The women consider anything in a skirt competition. Young, greasy haired men in tight trousers yelling incoherent jeers in your direction is enough to make you cringe and tug your skirt down a few centimeters. But when you've got a 70 year old man mumbling lewd French thoughts with an added 'Haw he haw' as you walk down the street, letting their eyes wonder up and down your body, then nudging their mate to do the same - it's enough to make you bloody agoraphobic. Perhaps this is why the streets were mostly empty throughout the day. On Tuesday we dragged ourselves away from the pool and headed into the nearest town at about 11:30am, only to find it completely deserted; the shops closed apart from a few cafes.
When we did find one open, there's nothing like linguistic incompetence to brighten your shopping experience. It's a continual embarrassment to me that I am so inept at basic French conversation when every other person on the continent seems an expert at English. When it came to explaining what it was I needed, I could do nothing but look confused and go "Errr, c'est...err...la..." before using my best drama skills to act it out. And then there's paying. Oh, god - paying. I'd often sort of just thrust a 20 Euro note in the shop keeper's direction and hope for the best, rather than try and figure out exactly what the amount they require is. "Could you say it slowly?" or "Can you write it down?" only ever resulted in them saying the amount again, but faster.
Anyway, so all that's just my way of saying that instead of practicing my French, mingling with the locals and spending lots of money in their shops, we mostly stayed at the house, ate copious amounts of cheese, tasted the local produce from the surrounding vineyards and err, flopped by the pool. All day. Sometimes all you need in life is a good book (or a stack of four, in my case), some sun cream and a box set of The Wire.
Et voila, mon vacation fin.
Monday, 8 June 2009
Leaving on a no frills jet plane
Aurevoir pour la week, mes amie, j'go deux practice mon francais. Oui. Petit cochon. Bon voyage!
Friday, 5 June 2009
Not Over
I've been up north in Hull - a place I spent four happy years at university and, if the basslines on the lowered Vauxhall Corsas flying up the road are to be trusted, a place where the delinquents still embrace happy hardcore as their road-thumping music of choice.
Most of my conversations this week have been with dogs and / or children under 10, work from The Writer has been non existent, so my brain has been lapsing into one which listens to outraged villagers calling into Radio 2 and nods in agreement with their views on the plight of the Post Office. Ahh, I'm living the quiet Yorkshire village life. The dogs aren't like mine, these ones poo on the pavement and after seven days of walks, I now pick it up without a cringe. I maintain there is probably nothing more attractive than the sight of a young girl walking along the road nonchalantly swinging a bag of canine excrement in her left hand.
And I've been thinking. Thinking a lot. Alone time in the place where I spent the best four years of my life means a lot of reminiscing and feeling, well, a bit sad. Every road reminds me of him. Every place, shop, house, pub, bar, crack in the pavement or lampost around here links to him in some obscure way; whether it was the location of a particularly epic drunken argument ("YOU BASTAAAAAARD!") or the grubby student rooms where we lay in bed all day watching Family Guy.
It's official: two polar opposites, Hull, the UK's worst town (2003) and Love, the UK's biggest killer - are no longer mutually exclusive. This week, driving through the main student area where we'd both lived, the emotion suddenly hit me like a slap on the proverbial. Before I knew it I was blubbing away to the sounds of my old iPod and a playlist I'd called simply "Hull". Screaming chavs and car chase noises didn't feature, but the tears were slightly increased by the sight of a young girl throwing her empty crisp wrapper out of the bus window next to me.
Despite my best efforts (and truly, they have been mammoth efforts on my part lately - busy isn't the word, I jet off for another adventure on Monday) - I miss him. I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. I think about him every sodding day. I miss him. There, I've said it. Admitted it. I. Miss. Him. Phew, that's a weight off my shoulders. I'm not supposed to say it out loud, you see. And it seems I'm not the only one:
"Why did you break up with ExBoyfrieeeeennd?" asked the ten year old I was babysitting for yesterday.
"She didn't break up with him, they broke up with each other" chipped in his younger sibling, aged seven.
"Oh. I liked him" continued her brother, "He was cool."
Eyebrows raised in surprise at the exchange going on in front of me, there was only one thing for it. I needed a sure-fire distraction, and fast.
"Right. Who wants McDonalds?"
Cheap tactics, but it worked.
Most of my conversations this week have been with dogs and / or children under 10, work from The Writer has been non existent, so my brain has been lapsing into one which listens to outraged villagers calling into Radio 2 and nods in agreement with their views on the plight of the Post Office. Ahh, I'm living the quiet Yorkshire village life. The dogs aren't like mine, these ones poo on the pavement and after seven days of walks, I now pick it up without a cringe. I maintain there is probably nothing more attractive than the sight of a young girl walking along the road nonchalantly swinging a bag of canine excrement in her left hand.
And I've been thinking. Thinking a lot. Alone time in the place where I spent the best four years of my life means a lot of reminiscing and feeling, well, a bit sad. Every road reminds me of him. Every place, shop, house, pub, bar, crack in the pavement or lampost around here links to him in some obscure way; whether it was the location of a particularly epic drunken argument ("YOU BASTAAAAAARD!") or the grubby student rooms where we lay in bed all day watching Family Guy.
It's official: two polar opposites, Hull, the UK's worst town (2003) and Love, the UK's biggest killer - are no longer mutually exclusive. This week, driving through the main student area where we'd both lived, the emotion suddenly hit me like a slap on the proverbial. Before I knew it I was blubbing away to the sounds of my old iPod and a playlist I'd called simply "Hull". Screaming chavs and car chase noises didn't feature, but the tears were slightly increased by the sight of a young girl throwing her empty crisp wrapper out of the bus window next to me.
Despite my best efforts (and truly, they have been mammoth efforts on my part lately - busy isn't the word, I jet off for another adventure on Monday) - I miss him. I miss him, I miss him, I miss him. I think about him every sodding day. I miss him. There, I've said it. Admitted it. I. Miss. Him. Phew, that's a weight off my shoulders. I'm not supposed to say it out loud, you see. And it seems I'm not the only one:
"Why did you break up with ExBoyfrieeeeennd?" asked the ten year old I was babysitting for yesterday.
"She didn't break up with him, they broke up with each other" chipped in his younger sibling, aged seven.
"Oh. I liked him" continued her brother, "He was cool."
Eyebrows raised in surprise at the exchange going on in front of me, there was only one thing for it. I needed a sure-fire distraction, and fast.
"Right. Who wants McDonalds?"
Cheap tactics, but it worked.
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Ryanair you sneaky bastards
I'm a 'say what you see' kind of person. I like things clear cut, no bull, no frilly bits; just the main story. This is why I don't like sales people, who dress something up, skirt around the issues and then get to the crunch after about half an hour. I don't like ulterior motives. I like to know what I'm getting myself in for. I don't succumb to "free makeovers" at beauty counters, because they're just guilt trips into buying something. When dreadlocked, mac wearing hippies with clipboards stop me on Oxford Street for a "quick chat", I implore them to get down to business: you want my money, I don't want to give you it. Let's skip the "how are yous" and we can all get on with our day.
This is why if me and Ryanair were stuck in a room together, we probably wouldn't get on. Ryanair doesn't give you the full story. It's sneaky, with really rubbish surprises that pop out at you half way through the booking process like a really crap, 1990's funhouse. With no ball pond.
In this way, flights advertised as £19.99 leap, within seconds, to over double that amount. For one, you have to pay to check yourself in. As in, do it all yourself and pay for someone else not to do something. This ideas really caught on lately. You have no choice: either you check in at the airport for about £40 or you do it yourself at home for £5. Or you stay in Luton Airport for the entire week looking miserable, it's your call.
Next up, we have the obligatory unspecified "taxes / fees". God knows what the fees are for. It's not food fees or leg room, that's for sure. Maybe it's private education for the pilot's kids...you'll never know. But they amount to £28.27, so already my £19.99 air fare is up past fifty quid.
Like most people going on holiday, you'll need some clothes for the week. Unless you can fit them into a bag that's smaller than the average child's lunch box, they'll stick you for another £20 per item of luggage that you need to check in.
British Airways is looking quite appealing at the moment, isn't it?
So now my £19.99 flights are up to £73.26. But that's not all! The next part's my favourite: it's the bit where you pay for the privilege of paying. Unless you're paying using a credit card which only 1% of the population owns, Visa Electron, you're stuck with a £5 credit, debit or sexual favours charge. They even charge you if you're muggins enough to have Ryanairs own credit card. Brilliant.
Thing is, we're now pushing £80 one way. It's still cheaper than getting a last minute train from London to Scotland, but the point is it's not £19.99. In fact, it's impossible for the fare to ever be £19.99, even if you opt out of insurance, bags, paying by card, speedy boarding and anything else you're coerced into adding on. This flight can never cost you £19.99.
I've got no problem with paying £80 for flights, I need to get somewhere and I'll go, it's still relatively cheap. But just tell me it's going to be £80! I'm not going to run and hide! Don't wait til I've told all my friends about being able to get flights to France for £19.99, if it's actually going to be £60 more!
I'm a brave girl, I can handle the truth. A few months ago I flew for the first time in ages with British Airways. It cost more, but I loved it. It was straight forward, easy and there were no hidden charges.
And they didn't shove on £5 at the gate for a welcoming smile.
This is why if me and Ryanair were stuck in a room together, we probably wouldn't get on. Ryanair doesn't give you the full story. It's sneaky, with really rubbish surprises that pop out at you half way through the booking process like a really crap, 1990's funhouse. With no ball pond.
In this way, flights advertised as £19.99 leap, within seconds, to over double that amount. For one, you have to pay to check yourself in. As in, do it all yourself and pay for someone else not to do something. This ideas really caught on lately. You have no choice: either you check in at the airport for about £40 or you do it yourself at home for £5. Or you stay in Luton Airport for the entire week looking miserable, it's your call.
Next up, we have the obligatory unspecified "taxes / fees". God knows what the fees are for. It's not food fees or leg room, that's for sure. Maybe it's private education for the pilot's kids...you'll never know. But they amount to £28.27, so already my £19.99 air fare is up past fifty quid.
Like most people going on holiday, you'll need some clothes for the week. Unless you can fit them into a bag that's smaller than the average child's lunch box, they'll stick you for another £20 per item of luggage that you need to check in.
British Airways is looking quite appealing at the moment, isn't it?
So now my £19.99 flights are up to £73.26. But that's not all! The next part's my favourite: it's the bit where you pay for the privilege of paying. Unless you're paying using a credit card which only 1% of the population owns, Visa Electron, you're stuck with a £5 credit, debit or sexual favours charge. They even charge you if you're muggins enough to have Ryanairs own credit card. Brilliant.
Thing is, we're now pushing £80 one way. It's still cheaper than getting a last minute train from London to Scotland, but the point is it's not £19.99. In fact, it's impossible for the fare to ever be £19.99, even if you opt out of insurance, bags, paying by card, speedy boarding and anything else you're coerced into adding on. This flight can never cost you £19.99.
I've got no problem with paying £80 for flights, I need to get somewhere and I'll go, it's still relatively cheap. But just tell me it's going to be £80! I'm not going to run and hide! Don't wait til I've told all my friends about being able to get flights to France for £19.99, if it's actually going to be £60 more!
I'm a brave girl, I can handle the truth. A few months ago I flew for the first time in ages with British Airways. It cost more, but I loved it. It was straight forward, easy and there were no hidden charges.
And they didn't shove on £5 at the gate for a welcoming smile.
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