Sitting on the duck of the bay
Originally uploaded by ALBOWIEB
28 minutes ago
Saturday, 27 March 2010
Thursday, 25 March 2010
I am on a train.
I am on a train. This is exactly the sort of occasion that would have thrilled the crap out of me back when I was seven, but today I have a nonchalant, world weary air about me. It's partly my age (I'm getting on, you know) and partly the fact that my socks are sopping ruddy wet. It was raining quite hard when I got on the train, now it is not. And that is the story of my life. Well, the story of my train journey.
I'm riding backwards - I don't really like it because I feel like I'm missing out on all the action. If I looked out of the window now - urgh. I'd see an ugly man at the end of the platform at Vauxhall. I'd also see what everyone else has already seen. That's no fun - I want to see things before anyone else.
On the positive side, I'm less (or do I mean fewer?) likely to die if this thing crashes. Fun times. Now I must away, though, as I am introducing Carolan and Andy to the delights of the Wholefoods supermarket in Kensington. It's my favourite supermarket in the world, but more on that tomorrow. I don't want to ruin your appetite.
I'm riding backwards - I don't really like it because I feel like I'm missing out on all the action. If I looked out of the window now - urgh. I'd see an ugly man at the end of the platform at Vauxhall. I'd also see what everyone else has already seen. That's no fun - I want to see things before anyone else.
On the positive side, I'm less (or do I mean fewer?) likely to die if this thing crashes. Fun times. Now I must away, though, as I am introducing Carolan and Andy to the delights of the Wholefoods supermarket in Kensington. It's my favourite supermarket in the world, but more on that tomorrow. I don't want to ruin your appetite.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
I am on a sofa in London.
Hello dear reader. Are you still there? It's me, Margaret.
I'm sat here next to my dear friends Carolan and Andy - I'm on more placements this week and next, and this week I'm staying with my old chums. It's like mildly popular new BBC television show The Bubble, except I'm being isolated from decent, cultured society.
Jokes. It's really strange being in London - I've not been into the centre, but I've already tasted the bittersweet tang of the commuter train, the leery bliss of the rammed bus. I kind of miss the place - I hated London during the winter, but she's beguiling in the spring.
It's the soundtrack too - the background hum, the traffic, the emergency vehicles, the aeroplanes, the helicopters. It's reassuring knowing there's that constant companion with you - I went to the countryside once, the silence was deafeningly uncomfortable.
I'm sat here next to my dear friends Carolan and Andy - I'm on more placements this week and next, and this week I'm staying with my old chums. It's like mildly popular new BBC television show The Bubble, except I'm being isolated from decent, cultured society.
Jokes. It's really strange being in London - I've not been into the centre, but I've already tasted the bittersweet tang of the commuter train, the leery bliss of the rammed bus. I kind of miss the place - I hated London during the winter, but she's beguiling in the spring.
It's the soundtrack too - the background hum, the traffic, the emergency vehicles, the aeroplanes, the helicopters. It's reassuring knowing there's that constant companion with you - I went to the countryside once, the silence was deafeningly uncomfortable.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
I get a(nother) cold sore. Fun times.
Getting my hair cut and cold sores - two rich seams running through the gritty nutrient-packed soil of my blog. I don't want to be typecast as a mop-haired fool with simmering pustules on his face, however, so I write about other things between my haircuts and cold sores. Last week, however, I did have a cold sore. It was a horrid one - they recommend putting cream on the area when it starts to tingle, but my tingly stage lasts about fifteen minutes before my lips start to swell in protest.
Fascinatingly the cold sore is actually a problem with the nerve - it hunkers down at the root, which is by your ear when you have them on your lip, then shimmies extravagantly along until it reaches freedom, exploding in an orgasma of pain and pus. Actually, it's not pus, it's a clear liquid that is formed by the immune system and mixes with bits of virus to become HIGHLY TOXIC. The things I know.
But anyway. I bought these patches to put on my faces, for a change, you know? Sometimes you just want to splash out and look nice. Invisible, they said. Hides your cold sore, they said. In actual fact I can't think of a better way to signal to others 'HEY, LOOK AT ME - I'VE PROBABLY GOT AIDS' other than actually writing that on a hat. Except I'm not really a hat person, I don't have the right head for it. I do have a head for heights. Actually I don't, but I just wanted to put that line in there.
I swear it fluoresced under application of daylight, said patch. It's a difficult thing, having a giant sore on your face when you've only got a week to make an impression upon a group of people. Nothing like creating an atmosphere where people lean backwards when you swivel round on your office chair. I really don't like cold sores - there's all that stuff about angels dancing on pin heads, which I don't know why they'd really want to do, but if demons were going to dance, they'd do it on cold sores. Foul sacks of evil that they are.
Fascinatingly the cold sore is actually a problem with the nerve - it hunkers down at the root, which is by your ear when you have them on your lip, then shimmies extravagantly along until it reaches freedom, exploding in an orgasma of pain and pus. Actually, it's not pus, it's a clear liquid that is formed by the immune system and mixes with bits of virus to become HIGHLY TOXIC. The things I know.
But anyway. I bought these patches to put on my faces, for a change, you know? Sometimes you just want to splash out and look nice. Invisible, they said. Hides your cold sore, they said. In actual fact I can't think of a better way to signal to others 'HEY, LOOK AT ME - I'VE PROBABLY GOT AIDS' other than actually writing that on a hat. Except I'm not really a hat person, I don't have the right head for it. I do have a head for heights. Actually I don't, but I just wanted to put that line in there.
I swear it fluoresced under application of daylight, said patch. It's a difficult thing, having a giant sore on your face when you've only got a week to make an impression upon a group of people. Nothing like creating an atmosphere where people lean backwards when you swivel round on your office chair. I really don't like cold sores - there's all that stuff about angels dancing on pin heads, which I don't know why they'd really want to do, but if demons were going to dance, they'd do it on cold sores. Foul sacks of evil that they are.
Friday, 19 March 2010
I am a sitcom.
My dad says 'Are you going to hang your coat up?'
My sister feigns what she thinks passes for calculated nonchalance but comes out more Ruby-Wax-has-a-hernia.
My dad says 'Look at me, look at mum...'
My mum is looking serious. She doesn't need to feign anything, she's from Glasgow.
I say 'Now look back to me. I'm on a horse.'
My witty contribution is wasted. As are many of my witty contributions. I shouldn't just be in a sitcom, I should be a sitcom. Damn I'm funny. And it's not planned, they just come out on the spot. Granted, sometimes I feel like they don't need to be wasted and I try to ease them back into conversation somewhere else, with a more willing audience. But they don't know it's scripted - that's the impeccable timing right there. And I even provide my own laughter track...
My sister feigns what she thinks passes for calculated nonchalance but comes out more Ruby-Wax-has-a-hernia.
My dad says 'Look at me, look at mum...'
My mum is looking serious. She doesn't need to feign anything, she's from Glasgow.
I say 'Now look back to me. I'm on a horse.'
My witty contribution is wasted. As are many of my witty contributions. I shouldn't just be in a sitcom, I should be a sitcom. Damn I'm funny. And it's not planned, they just come out on the spot. Granted, sometimes I feel like they don't need to be wasted and I try to ease them back into conversation somewhere else, with a more willing audience. But they don't know it's scripted - that's the impeccable timing right there. And I even provide my own laughter track...
I have done work experience.
So, for context, I was in Peterborough for work experience last week. Now, I'm not saying that Peterborough is a dump, but an interesting anagram is 'depressing hellhole' - you should check that. The only interesting thing to do there is inject yourself with something.
Of course, I say that - and without holding its insanely stupid one-way system and the Asda that takes £2 ransom from you in the car park unless you spend £10 inside against it - I shouldn't be too hasty to judge. I have after all merely driven through several times. I once spent 3 hours in Peterborough waiting for a passport, thinking about it.
I'm not sure I'm keen on the notion of work experience either. It was a great experience, being in a place of work which I should like to experience on a more full basis, but I have actually had plenty of experience of work before now. I am familiar with the process of doing things to further an organisation in exchange for monetary reward and perhaps a meaty discount off the wares you've been peddling and probably wouldn't want to buy but it's nice to have if you ever did. That I have experienced.
Introducing myself as the work experience guy makes me sound like I'm 16 and spotty, fresh-faced and innocent. Now I may be fresh-faced and innocent, but this is mainly down to a good skincare regime and plenty of water rather than any lack of activity in my business life. It's a hard life, trying to get yourself noticed in a sea of people trying to get themselves noticed. I don't know how noticeable I am amongst such efforts.
Sometimes it feels like the road less travelled is getting quite crowded. Actually, I hear that it's going to be closed for three months over the summer to add a couple of extra lanes. If only I wasn't 5 years too late to get offered a book deal on my blog. Obviously I'd have needed cancer or lots of sex to make it a compelling read, but that's a lost cause. I shall have to continue winging it on my deft use of wordsmithery and 10-watt smile (it's energy-saving).
Of course, I say that - and without holding its insanely stupid one-way system and the Asda that takes £2 ransom from you in the car park unless you spend £10 inside against it - I shouldn't be too hasty to judge. I have after all merely driven through several times. I once spent 3 hours in Peterborough waiting for a passport, thinking about it.
I'm not sure I'm keen on the notion of work experience either. It was a great experience, being in a place of work which I should like to experience on a more full basis, but I have actually had plenty of experience of work before now. I am familiar with the process of doing things to further an organisation in exchange for monetary reward and perhaps a meaty discount off the wares you've been peddling and probably wouldn't want to buy but it's nice to have if you ever did. That I have experienced.
Introducing myself as the work experience guy makes me sound like I'm 16 and spotty, fresh-faced and innocent. Now I may be fresh-faced and innocent, but this is mainly down to a good skincare regime and plenty of water rather than any lack of activity in my business life. It's a hard life, trying to get yourself noticed in a sea of people trying to get themselves noticed. I don't know how noticeable I am amongst such efforts.
Sometimes it feels like the road less travelled is getting quite crowded. Actually, I hear that it's going to be closed for three months over the summer to add a couple of extra lanes. If only I wasn't 5 years too late to get offered a book deal on my blog. Obviously I'd have needed cancer or lots of sex to make it a compelling read, but that's a lost cause. I shall have to continue winging it on my deft use of wordsmithery and 10-watt smile (it's energy-saving).
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Wednesday night is NCIS night.
Wednesday night is NCIS night. My parents aren't old enough to be fixedly set in their routine, but they're approaching the age where it reassures them. The nest is emptying, it fills back up then empties again. Television provides much-needed structure in a world that is transitory and fleeting. I guess this is true of much of us, that we rely on popular culture as a crutch of stability, a ruler by which to measure the rest of our lives. The passage of time is notched in our minds by 'gosh, is it time for Cops with Cameras already?'.
I love NCIS though - the humour, the bodies, the banter, the stories, the action, the people. Oh, that Gibbs. DeNozo, McGee, that crazy Abs. That terrifying Ziva. I feel like they're old friends of mine, people I have shared experiences and good times with. Of course, I know they're not real and they would never fit into a world of MAs and Coventry and working and writing, but in my head I could easily slot into theirs.
On a side note, the thing that always makes me chuckle at these American NCSIISSSI: Miami programmes is when the corpses are on the examining table there's always what I call the crotch light - the dead don't have nipples, and they certainly don't have naughty bits. I was watching UK crime scene thriller Silent Witness the other week and there was a distinctly uncomfortable lingering labia's-eye view shot of a post-mortem on a young woman who was freshly dead. Clearly the crotch light doesn't happen over here since the EU banned bright lights.
Anyway - in my head I could fit right into the world of any TV show I happen to love. I think this is how they succeed, much the same as the tea test for a politician - would I want to have a drink with Gordon Brown? No, I wouldn't. But that nice Mr Cameron might make acceptable company for a cup of tea. You'd get your best china out for the Prime Minister and he'd throw it against the wall, knocking you to the ground on his way out. Would I want to have a drink with NCIS? Yes, I would. That would be fun. I'd even bake them cakes.
I love NCIS though - the humour, the bodies, the banter, the stories, the action, the people. Oh, that Gibbs. DeNozo, McGee, that crazy Abs. That terrifying Ziva. I feel like they're old friends of mine, people I have shared experiences and good times with. Of course, I know they're not real and they would never fit into a world of MAs and Coventry and working and writing, but in my head I could easily slot into theirs.
On a side note, the thing that always makes me chuckle at these American NCSIISSSI: Miami programmes is when the corpses are on the examining table there's always what I call the crotch light - the dead don't have nipples, and they certainly don't have naughty bits. I was watching UK crime scene thriller Silent Witness the other week and there was a distinctly uncomfortable lingering labia's-eye view shot of a post-mortem on a young woman who was freshly dead. Clearly the crotch light doesn't happen over here since the EU banned bright lights.
Anyway - in my head I could fit right into the world of any TV show I happen to love. I think this is how they succeed, much the same as the tea test for a politician - would I want to have a drink with Gordon Brown? No, I wouldn't. But that nice Mr Cameron might make acceptable company for a cup of tea. You'd get your best china out for the Prime Minister and he'd throw it against the wall, knocking you to the ground on his way out. Would I want to have a drink with NCIS? Yes, I would. That would be fun. I'd even bake them cakes.
I make a declarative statement.
I am in a bed and breakfast. (Not right at this moment, obviously, because I'm back, but I open with a present tense declarative statement because it makes a dramatic impact on the opening of the blog post.)
I find myself falling asleep wondering how many other people have slept in the bed before me. Even with a conservative estimate and a proprietor who engages in regular airing and fumigation you can easily get into triple figures.
I find myself wondering how much other genetic material mine is mingling with beneath me, like some mixer party for death. I look at time itself as a moment - how many people am I sleeping with in that moment? It's like putting a sheet and duvet over Catherine the Great. What if someone died in this bed and they called out CSI: East Midlands? They'd find the DNA of thousands, it'd be like a Serbian mass grave.
I have this difficulty everywhere I go that isn't my own. So a hotel changes the sheets between each guest, doesn't really make the place that clean. I remember staying in a place in Budapest on one of our family trips to Romania - the beds were all damp, we weren't sure whether that was due to mild cleaning or the unthinkable. I stayed at a B&B in Blackpool for NUS conference one year where I swear I got an eye infection off my pillow. I woke up the first morning thinking that breakfast smelled great, then I realised it was the bedding.
I find myself falling asleep wondering how many other people have slept in the bed before me. Even with a conservative estimate and a proprietor who engages in regular airing and fumigation you can easily get into triple figures.
I find myself wondering how much other genetic material mine is mingling with beneath me, like some mixer party for death. I look at time itself as a moment - how many people am I sleeping with in that moment? It's like putting a sheet and duvet over Catherine the Great. What if someone died in this bed and they called out CSI: East Midlands? They'd find the DNA of thousands, it'd be like a Serbian mass grave.
I have this difficulty everywhere I go that isn't my own. So a hotel changes the sheets between each guest, doesn't really make the place that clean. I remember staying in a place in Budapest on one of our family trips to Romania - the beds were all damp, we weren't sure whether that was due to mild cleaning or the unthinkable. I stayed at a B&B in Blackpool for NUS conference one year where I swear I got an eye infection off my pillow. I woke up the first morning thinking that breakfast smelled great, then I realised it was the bedding.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
They breed loneliness.
UK bed and breakfasts are the most depressing places, they breed loneliness. I think it must be the way that they pretend to be actual homes, but fail. Remind you what you're missing. Have you ever been to the Black Country Museum? It's a living museum. You can go to the pub, have a nice refreshing glass of dandelion and burdock, go down the pit and buy some stuff from the sweetshop. You don't get to poo outside in a tin shack or die young of tuberculosis, it's mostly historical recreations that involve spending some money. Modern money'n'all, I've got a small collection of old coins, I should go back and demand to be allowed to spend them on a half pound of pear drops. Mm, pear drops.
Anyway - my point is that bed and breakfasts in the UK are like being in Black Country Museums for the late Seventies. They're living museums. The place I stayed in last week had strangely glowing red carpets, corridors plastered with textured wallpaper and furniture badly-assembled around forty years ago. The teensy telly and its willing wife the digibox perched on top of the swaying wardrobe were the only diffident nods to the twenty-first century. The vegetable oil smell of fried breakfasts clung to the walls, none of the cutlery matched and the towels had the sandpapery feel of regular washing over a lifetime.
Luckily I wasn't on such a tight budget I'd have to poo outside in a tin shack or risk contracting tuberculosis. Continental guesthouses are much more classy affairs. All I have to do is get me a real job and maybe I can frequent them once more...
Anyway - my point is that bed and breakfasts in the UK are like being in Black Country Museums for the late Seventies. They're living museums. The place I stayed in last week had strangely glowing red carpets, corridors plastered with textured wallpaper and furniture badly-assembled around forty years ago. The teensy telly and its willing wife the digibox perched on top of the swaying wardrobe were the only diffident nods to the twenty-first century. The vegetable oil smell of fried breakfasts clung to the walls, none of the cutlery matched and the towels had the sandpapery feel of regular washing over a lifetime.
Luckily I wasn't on such a tight budget I'd have to poo outside in a tin shack or risk contracting tuberculosis. Continental guesthouses are much more classy affairs. All I have to do is get me a real job and maybe I can frequent them once more...
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Monday, 15 March 2010
I turn the television off.
I have been watching all of the television that I have missed in the past week on the hard drive. I have still to find a usefully ubiquitous adjective to describe this activity - I have never tivoed and I am Sky nonplussed - but anyhow, it is time to put down the remote and get ready to leave the house for breakfast. I find it is cheering for the soul to contrive some way to leave the house once a day - when the dog dies you have to get more imaginative though.
I turn off the programme I am watching and switch the television back to simpler freeview mode that lesser-switched on members of the household can get their lips around. I alight on a channel - I believe it to be BBC1, but my eyes deceive me - displaying a programme of such crass shitness that I rub my eyes in disbelief like I'm a 1960s cartoon character. And I wear glasses. I make a mental note to clean them.
'Missing Live' is on. iPlayer describes it as "Louise Minchin and Rav Wilding speak to search and rescue experts." What a pitch. I bet they were cock-a-hoop when that one landed on their desks. The only way I can imagine this series might be interesting is if a camera crew was on the prowl through Redditch and finds a Big Issue sellerwho turns out to be a former solicitor with amnesia who went missing 12 years ago.
What's worse is that Pauline Quirke is on there. I can only imagine that she's one of the series' success stories - trapped in a wilderness of civilian hell for the last twenty years she has been found rightfully restored to her B-list place on the throne. She has been on everything in the past week, invading my Saturday Kitchen. I still can't figure out what she's trying to promote. I was going to leave the television on in case anyone else in the house wanted to watch it, but instead I turn it off.
I don't want to give anyone false hope when it comes to the viewing figures.
I turn off the programme I am watching and switch the television back to simpler freeview mode that lesser-switched on members of the household can get their lips around. I alight on a channel - I believe it to be BBC1, but my eyes deceive me - displaying a programme of such crass shitness that I rub my eyes in disbelief like I'm a 1960s cartoon character. And I wear glasses. I make a mental note to clean them.
'Missing Live' is on. iPlayer describes it as "Louise Minchin and Rav Wilding speak to search and rescue experts." What a pitch. I bet they were cock-a-hoop when that one landed on their desks. The only way I can imagine this series might be interesting is if a camera crew was on the prowl through Redditch and finds a Big Issue sellerwho turns out to be a former solicitor with amnesia who went missing 12 years ago.
What's worse is that Pauline Quirke is on there. I can only imagine that she's one of the series' success stories - trapped in a wilderness of civilian hell for the last twenty years she has been found rightfully restored to her B-list place on the throne. She has been on everything in the past week, invading my Saturday Kitchen. I still can't figure out what she's trying to promote. I was going to leave the television on in case anyone else in the house wanted to watch it, but instead I turn it off.
I don't want to give anyone false hope when it comes to the viewing figures.
Saturday, 13 March 2010
I return.
So, er, I'm back.
But that was Carolyn, ladies and gentlemen - wasn't she great? But I can't have anyone eclipsing me on my blog. I'm afraid I've had to kill her. If you want to pay your respects (and let's face it, you probably won't), you can find her in the favourites on my sat-nav.
I shall be enthralling you with my exploits of the last week - mostly moaning about bed and breakfasts - but today I should like to say happy birthday to a very special little girl. She's neither little, nor really a girl anymore at twentysomething (I gather it's not polite to out a lady on her age these days), but today is in fact Carolan's birthday.
Yes - Carolyn, Carolan - my life is nothing if not a mess of confusion. Carolan was my partner in grime at the students' union in Bangor when I worked there many moons ago. I am going to be away for another week next week and I will be staying with Carolan and Andy in London, which I am very much looking forward. I am hopeful I can persuade them both to do a little guest blogging whilst I'm in their abode.
But for now, a very happy birthday, Carolan. (On a side note, why do we say many happy returns? I've never got that - wouldn't you rather wish someone a fistful of presents they'd actually like to keep? And taking stuff back to the shops is never happy in my experience. It's the very definition of a guilt trip.) Have a lovely day. Or rather, given that it's nearly half nine, I hope you had a lovely one.
But that was Carolyn, ladies and gentlemen - wasn't she great? But I can't have anyone eclipsing me on my blog. I'm afraid I've had to kill her. If you want to pay your respects (and let's face it, you probably won't), you can find her in the favourites on my sat-nav.
I shall be enthralling you with my exploits of the last week - mostly moaning about bed and breakfasts - but today I should like to say happy birthday to a very special little girl. She's neither little, nor really a girl anymore at twentysomething (I gather it's not polite to out a lady on her age these days), but today is in fact Carolan's birthday.
Yes - Carolyn, Carolan - my life is nothing if not a mess of confusion. Carolan was my partner in grime at the students' union in Bangor when I worked there many moons ago. I am going to be away for another week next week and I will be staying with Carolan and Andy in London, which I am very much looking forward. I am hopeful I can persuade them both to do a little guest blogging whilst I'm in their abode.
But for now, a very happy birthday, Carolan. (On a side note, why do we say many happy returns? I've never got that - wouldn't you rather wish someone a fistful of presents they'd actually like to keep? And taking stuff back to the shops is never happy in my experience. It's the very definition of a guilt trip.) Have a lovely day. Or rather, given that it's nearly half nine, I hope you had a lovely one.
Friday, 12 March 2010
Conversation with an 8 year old.
"Carolyn, are you a mummy yet?"
"Not that I know of."
"So you won't get any cards or presents or anything on Sunday then?"
"No, I suppose not."
Way to make me suddenly really regret not getting knocked up at some point in my 24 young years on this planet!
"Not that I know of."
"So you won't get any cards or presents or anything on Sunday then?"
"No, I suppose not."
Way to make me suddenly really regret not getting knocked up at some point in my 24 young years on this planet!
Thursday, 11 March 2010
Gogledd Cymru
I'm going out tomorrow so I'm writing this post today so it will appear tomorrow so to you it will appear today and I will have written this yesterday.
I am going for a walk in the moutains with a lovely friend in Snowdonia somewhere. We have the most wonderful days in the hills. We love a good walk with a bit of a scramble and although we normally plan a nice sensible walk we always end up going on a bit of an adventure. A few weeks ago we planned to go for tea in Conwy and ended up doing a several hour walk on the hills behind the town. We planned to walk to a little ruin above Penmaenmawr once and ended up doing an epic trek through the snow and wind to the top of Drum.
Wales is so beautiful and exciting. I even love the drive along the North Wales coast on the A55. You pass places with the most wonderful names: Penmaenmawr, Llanfairfechan, Dwygyfylchi, Ffynonngroyw, Rhostrehwfa and of course Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyndrobwllllantisiliogogogoch.
That's enough for today. I'm off to my friends for tea now...in Rhosllanerchrugog.
I am going for a walk in the moutains with a lovely friend in Snowdonia somewhere. We have the most wonderful days in the hills. We love a good walk with a bit of a scramble and although we normally plan a nice sensible walk we always end up going on a bit of an adventure. A few weeks ago we planned to go for tea in Conwy and ended up doing a several hour walk on the hills behind the town. We planned to walk to a little ruin above Penmaenmawr once and ended up doing an epic trek through the snow and wind to the top of Drum.
Wales is so beautiful and exciting. I even love the drive along the North Wales coast on the A55. You pass places with the most wonderful names: Penmaenmawr, Llanfairfechan, Dwygyfylchi, Ffynonngroyw, Rhostrehwfa and of course Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyndrobwllllantisiliogogogoch.
That's enough for today. I'm off to my friends for tea now...in Rhosllanerchrugog.
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
Story time
I've been at work experience this week with a judge. Of course court is terrifying to those who are there for a hearing but I absolutely love the atmosphere and protocols and tension surrounding a court room as an onlooker.
The judge I do work experience with is a fantastic story-teller and I thought I would repeat for you a few of his stories.
A defendant, claiming that his diary contained evidence of his alibi, when asked to produce it for the court presented a diary for the year completely blank apart from the day in question when he 'went shopping'. "It wasn't a very busy year for you was it?", queried the cross-examiner!
In another case, a diary used as evidence was a much more meticulously filled-in book which did seem to show that the defendant was not where the criminal in question was on the day in question. Later on in the case, as the judge absent-mindedly flicked through the diary his eyes came across the words 'Went to rob them today but had no luck. Will try again next week'! The defendant's pleas were quickly altered.
A recent case in another town involved a man who tried to deny murdering and burying his lover until the police found the spot where the body was buried saved, under favourites, in his Sat Nav!
The judge I do work experience with is a fantastic story-teller and I thought I would repeat for you a few of his stories.
A defendant, claiming that his diary contained evidence of his alibi, when asked to produce it for the court presented a diary for the year completely blank apart from the day in question when he 'went shopping'. "It wasn't a very busy year for you was it?", queried the cross-examiner!
In another case, a diary used as evidence was a much more meticulously filled-in book which did seem to show that the defendant was not where the criminal in question was on the day in question. Later on in the case, as the judge absent-mindedly flicked through the diary his eyes came across the words 'Went to rob them today but had no luck. Will try again next week'! The defendant's pleas were quickly altered.
A recent case in another town involved a man who tried to deny murdering and burying his lover until the police found the spot where the body was buried saved, under favourites, in his Sat Nav!
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
A tasty snack
It was always a bit of a mystery to me why Sam and I are friends as he is a far more interesting and civilized person than I am, but it has become apparent to me recently that he humours me in the hope of hearing the next embarrassing saga from the life of Carolyn.
There is a kid at the church we both used to go to who takes great delight in telling one particular story about me, or at least bringing it up so I have to attempt to explain myself to the people around. “Carolyn eats socks” he shouts and then runs away: let me explain.
A number of years ago I was camping with friends. Someone put a Custard Cream on the barbeque and then someone put a tiny bit of someone’s sock on the Custard Cream. Someone else bet I wouldn’t eat it. I did. But these things happen and we learn from our mistakes, you might think. The problem is that they don't to most people and I didn’t.
Fast forward two years...and I am leading a kids camp. One night the other leaders of this camp, who had heard the aforementioned sock-eating story, presented me with a sock (which they had been baking in the oven all day) and challenged me to eat it…in front of about 50 intrigued/bemused/delighted children.
I ate a few bites of said baked-sock…and threw it up 5 minutes later. I don’t think a scientific name for this particular eating disorder has been assigned yet but I imagine when it is there will only be one person they could possibly name it after.
And that, I think, is why Sam is my friend.
I go to a gig
I don't really like music. I don't really dislike it either. I guess you'd say I'm indifferent to the whole thing. I could be in a room with music playing for hours and not really be aware of it.
I do, however, enjoy other people's enthusiasm for music and every now and again I will catch a bit of this. This happened to me with Dave Matthews Band. And on Sunday night I went with a friend to see them live.
The drummer was out of this world - he did several drum solos one of which lasted a good ten minutes, which on physical fitness alone is incredible, but the fact that I managed to not get bored of 10 minutes of a man hitting things is truly amazing.
There was an enormous black man - dressed all in black who looked like someone from security that had sneaked on stage - with an amazing voice and who played the trumpet superbly.
There was a massive, tall, buff guy with dreadlocks who played the violin unlike I have heard or seen it played before.
And then there was Dave Matthews and his phenomenaly talented friend Tim Reynolds on guitar playing like they were bang smack in the middle of the eighties.
But the best bit? They were having an insane amount of fun up there. It was like being invited to watch a load of super-enthusiastic teenagers jam in their Dad's garage, but in a big theatre with lots of flashy lights and they are all well beyond teenagerdom. I felt like I became a geeky music fan for the night...and I loved it.
I do, however, enjoy other people's enthusiasm for music and every now and again I will catch a bit of this. This happened to me with Dave Matthews Band. And on Sunday night I went with a friend to see them live.
The drummer was out of this world - he did several drum solos one of which lasted a good ten minutes, which on physical fitness alone is incredible, but the fact that I managed to not get bored of 10 minutes of a man hitting things is truly amazing.
There was an enormous black man - dressed all in black who looked like someone from security that had sneaked on stage - with an amazing voice and who played the trumpet superbly.
There was a massive, tall, buff guy with dreadlocks who played the violin unlike I have heard or seen it played before.
And then there was Dave Matthews and his phenomenaly talented friend Tim Reynolds on guitar playing like they were bang smack in the middle of the eighties.
But the best bit? They were having an insane amount of fun up there. It was like being invited to watch a load of super-enthusiastic teenagers jam in their Dad's garage, but in a big theatre with lots of flashy lights and they are all well beyond teenagerdom. I felt like I became a geeky music fan for the night...and I loved it.
Monday, 8 March 2010
Meet the babysitter.
Hello. May I introduce myself? My name is Carolyn and I am a friend of ALBOWIEB’s. I started blogging a few weeks ago with a bit of encouragement from Sam. Next thing I know I’m babysitting his blog. I want to write about things that I don’t think Sam would. Sadly this means, because of his post on Saturday, my fascinating anecdote about sock sorting is out of bounds.
But the subject of being outside – and happy at the same time - is very much safe. Sam doesn’t like going outside. A few of us took him for a little walk there once and he still moans about it to this day. I love being outside whether it’s walking, climbing, swimming, sunbathing, working, drinking tea... whatever I do, I’m much happier if I’m outside breathing fresh air. However, being a law student, I have spent the last few weeks cooped up studying for exams.
So, it was with great delight that I spent a day on the beach in the sun on Saturday. We even had a barbeque and I managed to get slightly sunburnt. I think a wonderful part of being British is our insistence on pretending it’s a glorious summer’s day when it is most definitely not.
I enjoy it a lot. Sam would not.
But the subject of being outside – and happy at the same time - is very much safe. Sam doesn’t like going outside. A few of us took him for a little walk there once and he still moans about it to this day. I love being outside whether it’s walking, climbing, swimming, sunbathing, working, drinking tea... whatever I do, I’m much happier if I’m outside breathing fresh air. However, being a law student, I have spent the last few weeks cooped up studying for exams.
So, it was with great delight that I spent a day on the beach in the sun on Saturday. We even had a barbeque and I managed to get slightly sunburnt. I think a wonderful part of being British is our insistence on pretending it’s a glorious summer’s day when it is most definitely not.
I enjoy it a lot. Sam would not.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
I go away for a few days.
I'm off tomorrow. Until Saturday. Like, not here. I'm doing something really fun as well, but I'm not going to tell you about it. Radio silence.
I think I've arranged for a replacement, but I'm not quite sure.
So post-a-day - finished. My steam has run out by this point anyway - January was great, February was fun, but March just isn't coping. In order to write about stuff, you need to do some stuff. I'm off to do some stuff this week, which oddly enough revolves around the world of writing about stuff anyway.
So be kind to the locum and rest easy, chums. There's more wisdom in this box yet.
I think I've arranged for a replacement, but I'm not quite sure.
So post-a-day - finished. My steam has run out by this point anyway - January was great, February was fun, but March just isn't coping. In order to write about stuff, you need to do some stuff. I'm off to do some stuff this week, which oddly enough revolves around the world of writing about stuff anyway.
So be kind to the locum and rest easy, chums. There's more wisdom in this box yet.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
It's Saturday (still).
I was just in bed and realised that I'd nothing for today. I'm going to sneak this one in under the line. The most interesting things that happened to me today? I made a rice pudding (secret: plenty of grated nutmeg, a pinch of cinnamon and a snifter of chilli flakes just to wake the palette up) and sorted my socks out. I hate sorting my socks out, it's a pain. You have to go through each one and match it up with any one of the other socks until you've whittled them all down and you have a load left that don't belong anywhere and you hide them in a cupboard. I'd put this off for so long I've just stuffed 42 pairs of socks in my drawer.
Fun times. Who says Saturdays need to be boring, eh?
Fun times. Who says Saturdays need to be boring, eh?
Friday, 5 March 2010
Anna gonna let you finish, but Beyonce had some great videos this year.
Those naughty podcasting boys have been harassing Anna from IKEA (especially Ben, who I think must fancy her a bit, they've been spending an awful lot of time together), so I thought I would get in touch just to smooth things over with her, make sure she was alright.
Sam: I just wanted to apologise for Ben. And Angry. And Cliff.
Anna: If you want affordable solutions for better living, you are at the right place.
Sam: They're terribly funny and they mean well, but I do fear that people could get hurt in their unstoppable podcast juggernaut. Fame goes to your head, like.
Anna: All of IKEA's products are made to the highest standards, including myself.
Sam: I don't know what you're trying to tell me there.
Anna: Please describe to me your query about IKEA products and/or services?
Sam: I just wanted to know if we were OK, you know? You weren't offended by their antics? I can see that you're a woman who takes her job seriously - home furnishings are no laughing matter.
Anna: I'm fine, thank you for asking.
Sam: Oh, good. Do you have any tealights?
Anna: Here you will find the Scented Candles Subcategory.
Sam: Fairly useless, but I also wanted to know what IKEA put in those meatballs?
Anna: Welcome to the IKEA Swedish Shop! Here you can pick up some of our world-famous meatballs!
Sam: Yes, but what are they made of?
Anna: For which product would you like to know what kind of materials it is made from?
Sam: Meatballs.
Anna: Welcome to the IKEA Swedish Shop! Here you can pick up some of our world-famous meatballs!
Sam: FFS. Are they made of people? I have theories.
Anna: For which product would you like to know what kind of materials it is made from?
Sam: Alright, I take it back. Those boys can do whatever they like to you.
Anna: I'm fine, thank you for asking.
Sam: I didn't.
Sam: I just wanted to apologise for Ben. And Angry. And Cliff.
Anna: If you want affordable solutions for better living, you are at the right place.
Sam: They're terribly funny and they mean well, but I do fear that people could get hurt in their unstoppable podcast juggernaut. Fame goes to your head, like.
Anna: All of IKEA's products are made to the highest standards, including myself.
Sam: I don't know what you're trying to tell me there.
Anna: Please describe to me your query about IKEA products and/or services?
Sam: I just wanted to know if we were OK, you know? You weren't offended by their antics? I can see that you're a woman who takes her job seriously - home furnishings are no laughing matter.
Anna: I'm fine, thank you for asking.
Sam: Oh, good. Do you have any tealights?
Anna: Here you will find the Scented Candles Subcategory.
Sam: Fairly useless, but I also wanted to know what IKEA put in those meatballs?
Anna: Welcome to the IKEA Swedish Shop! Here you can pick up some of our world-famous meatballs!
Sam: Yes, but what are they made of?
Anna: For which product would you like to know what kind of materials it is made from?
Sam: Meatballs.
Anna: Welcome to the IKEA Swedish Shop! Here you can pick up some of our world-famous meatballs!
Sam: FFS. Are they made of people? I have theories.
Anna: For which product would you like to know what kind of materials it is made from?
Sam: Alright, I take it back. Those boys can do whatever they like to you.
Anna: I'm fine, thank you for asking.
Sam: I didn't.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Defcon Blah.
Isn't it exciting to see the sun? It might still be chuffing cold outside, but to feel the warmth of the sun's rays melting away the last grips of winter on your soul. Having said that it will probably snow again next week. I think my soul might manage another frost, but any more than that and my petals will wilt.
I think there's only so far I can go with this analogy. I don't think I come out of it altogether well.
But I am still in the same state as yesterday - a good sleep didn't cure the problem, so we're up to Defcon 2. What does defcon even mean? The Americans love their stupid acronyms for stuff. Like NORAD, or FAQ or USA. Interesting Wikipedia does it again - perhaps I'm naive, but it gets the basics across for me. Defcon stands for Defence Readiness Condition. So it should be DefRedCon, but then it starts to sound more and more like people who are fans of both Def Leppard and Simply Red and have no place to show their affection but a small hotel function room in Las Vegas where they all wear bizarre fancy dress and have name badges. Apparently Defcon 1 has never been reached and Defcon 2 hasn't been reached since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Obviously Jack Kennedy couldn't defeat the level boss and get to the end of the game. The last time Defcon 3 was reached was during September 11 - this is heady stuff. I think it's easy to get blasé about mounting Defcons when you watch as much action television as I do.
Anyway. I started that last paragraph intending to say simply that I shall have to improve my readiness and carry a notepad at all times. This is how we are going to defeat the Big Bad Block.
I think there's only so far I can go with this analogy. I don't think I come out of it altogether well.
But I am still in the same state as yesterday - a good sleep didn't cure the problem, so we're up to Defcon 2. What does defcon even mean? The Americans love their stupid acronyms for stuff. Like NORAD, or FAQ or USA. Interesting Wikipedia does it again - perhaps I'm naive, but it gets the basics across for me. Defcon stands for Defence Readiness Condition. So it should be DefRedCon, but then it starts to sound more and more like people who are fans of both Def Leppard and Simply Red and have no place to show their affection but a small hotel function room in Las Vegas where they all wear bizarre fancy dress and have name badges. Apparently Defcon 1 has never been reached and Defcon 2 hasn't been reached since the Cuban Missile Crisis. Obviously Jack Kennedy couldn't defeat the level boss and get to the end of the game. The last time Defcon 3 was reached was during September 11 - this is heady stuff. I think it's easy to get blasé about mounting Defcons when you watch as much action television as I do.
Anyway. I started that last paragraph intending to say simply that I shall have to improve my readiness and carry a notepad at all times. This is how we are going to defeat the Big Bad Block.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
Stuck. For. Words.
So I'm like yeah all up in your face and that. I'm really stuck for things to write about, you know. I can hardly think of anything witty to put into 140 characters, let alone the several hundred words that one might be need to string together in order to form a coherent blog post. Although coherent is mainly aspirational these days.
I've lost my mojo, wherever it came from. This, this now, this thing that I'm doing, this post - it's like torture. It's like pulling teeth. It's not coming out, where a post just writes itself, I see something and then I write about it. Maybe I'm not seeing enough, or I'm seeing things and not really seeing them. Whatever, the juices, they floweth not.
I had a good run there through January and February - some good stuff if I do say so myself. In all humility I put some cracking material out there into the cybernetical ether. Maybe I should have hung back, kept some for myself - posted every other day. Is this it for the rest of my life? I just started working for a Swedish furniture giant. Part-time job, get some cashflow flowing. Should that be my thing now? Oh Lord, won't you get me a job testing a Mercedes-Benz (in order to review and then publish said piece, non?)...
I've lost my mojo, wherever it came from. This, this now, this thing that I'm doing, this post - it's like torture. It's like pulling teeth. It's not coming out, where a post just writes itself, I see something and then I write about it. Maybe I'm not seeing enough, or I'm seeing things and not really seeing them. Whatever, the juices, they floweth not.
I had a good run there through January and February - some good stuff if I do say so myself. In all humility I put some cracking material out there into the cybernetical ether. Maybe I should have hung back, kept some for myself - posted every other day. Is this it for the rest of my life? I just started working for a Swedish furniture giant. Part-time job, get some cashflow flowing. Should that be my thing now? Oh Lord, won't you get me a job testing a Mercedes-Benz (in order to review and then publish said piece, non?)...
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Monday, 1 March 2010
My mum has been given a Wii for her birthday. Although the family is precisely 5 year behind the rest of the world, they are determined to make up for it in communal mii-building sessions, lots of bowling and other dangerous activities that are going to result in the loss of life and ornament. Suddenly there has been a transformation from sedate tea-sippers watching NCIS to a bunch of vicious arm-waving competitive loons with eyes on the prize. Except there isn't one.
This is all bad news for the family television. Mainly with regard to my watching it. Like one of those string-backed fast-forwarded shots of some suitably-twee bit of British countryside you see on building society adverts, with the clouds speeding by and the lights going up and down, up and down - this is how I see the world of television passing relentlessly by in my absence. For a while now I have been recording things onto a hard drive for later viewing. Little did I know that 'later viewing' now means 'when I'm 43'.
I'm planning a move to from GMT to Pacific Time Zone - it's the only way I'll be able to keep up with the world.
This is all bad news for the family television. Mainly with regard to my watching it. Like one of those string-backed fast-forwarded shots of some suitably-twee bit of British countryside you see on building society adverts, with the clouds speeding by and the lights going up and down, up and down - this is how I see the world of television passing relentlessly by in my absence. For a while now I have been recording things onto a hard drive for later viewing. Little did I know that 'later viewing' now means 'when I'm 43'.
I'm planning a move to from GMT to Pacific Time Zone - it's the only way I'll be able to keep up with the world.
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