Today I find myself concerned because I have stopped for a second, looked around and realized I'm sitting in a handbasket. Yes, this is a metaphor. And when you are sitting in a metaphorical handbasket you know what your ultimate destination is going to be. If you don't, I applaud you and I would appreciate life advice.
Now, in the moment of inevitable re-evaluation that this sort of handbasket sitting causes, I thought about how I had arrived in the center of this particular handbasket. Life has a strange way of wending around like a lazy river. It takes its own time, bending here and swirling there. Moving in a muddled way that can take a distracted traveler by surprise. One moment you've put into the river in a canoe, knowing exactly what direction you are headed. The next while you take a moment to admire the scenery, you realize that you are suddenly in the eddy of an oxbow facing entirely the opposite direction from the one you expected and your canoe has magically turned itself into a handbasket.
At moments like this, I like to assess my life and try to figure out which bend in the river has put me in this precise handbasket. So, I looked around at a few of my fellow travelers. A few of them looked shocked as though they'd been newly apprised of our destination. A couple of them looked grim as though they'd known about our dire situation for a long time but seen no way out of the inevitable. Not a one of us was entirely sure how the river of life had turned us around and spit us out into this handbasket on the highway to... well, you know.
Hindsight has proven the few souls that bailed earlier to be the wiser travelers on this path. Alas, I was not so wise as they. I have only now seen the handwriting on the road signs. So here we are, a sad group of somewhat more or less shocked travelers in a handbasket speeding down the highway. I gape as we roar past another group of people along the side of the road feverishly bent over their wickerwork; weaving a new handbasket for their own impending journey. That's when I realized that not a single fellow traveler was arguing about whether we were, in fact, on our way to H*ll with impressive speed, we were merely quibbling about the ETA.
The way things have gone today, I think it might be wise to invest in wicker.
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Tuesday, 20 June 2017
Tuesday, 28 January 2014
Get a REAL job? Excuse me?
Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, I am proud to invite you to the world's best showing of complete and utter MESS. Tonight I present to you a thing of such pathetic and poor construction that it must be concluded that amoebas have better design, higher purpose and more dignity. Allow me, ladies and gentlemen, to present to you.... drumroll....
MY LIFE.
I know, I know. It was in my last post that I made a decision to avoid people til I had calmed down and found some peace with myself and my fellow man. However, I utterly failed. I was not able to bring myself to publish this post til just recently, but you will not believe the disastrous timing I have. One day I vow to calm down and avoid conversations about my state of unemployment, and then, on the very next day, this happens.
I went out to buy food. A seemingly harmless pursuit, wouldn't you say?
Wrong.
I did not know it at the time but this very act of leaving my house for food caused me to fail in my resolution and left me not only speechless but also horrifically angry and depressed a mere handful of hours after the commencement of my noble and clever plan.
The journey to the shop started well, as with most things that go unaccountably and terribly sour. It was a pleasant enough day and I began with a stroll to the post office. Along the way I met a pleasant man and we shared a short conversation, near a particular (one might even say renowned) stretch of pavement, about how concerned and terribly saddened we were by the 2pm appearance of rowdy inebriates. We shook our heads, exchanged pleasantries, and wished each other a good day when we parted a few minutes later. All in all a good journey so far.
The post office was found precisely as expected. The queues were orderly, the stamps cheap, and the post satisfactorily sent on its way. This letter was only a few days late in being sent because I am not always prompt at replying to letters and even less so at actually posting them. That matter concluded, I admired some of the decaying grandeur of another age, mentally taking pictures of the pleasing architecture, even if it was covered over in peeling paint, and I made my unhurried way to the store in order to procure essentials. Shampoo and laundry soap made it into my basket along with a few various chocolate consumables and the few "good-for-you" foods that completed my shop.
I was feeling productive and happy. So far everything had gone as I had hoped. Everything was uneventful. I made the long walk home and was pleased that my troublesome elbow was not causing me too much pain on this day. It was not long before I arrived at my corner of London. I made it inside my building and then, I noticed the people. The people waiting for the lift.
Which people, you might wonder? Well I hardly knew that I would be so violently opposed to them in a few minutes, but here they were. A couple, slightly older, and a solitary gentleman, they waited with me silently at the door to the lift. The couple had also been shopping and when the lift door opened we had a bit of bother fitting all four of us and our shopping bags into the lift comfortably. It is a narrow lift and it is usually best for me to be at the back as I live on the highest floor, as did they apparently. The solitary gentleman said nothing and exited on the second floor causing a bit of reshuffling and a comment from the older gentleman that it was a bit like Piccadilly Circus in our lift with all the bumping into people, coming and going, and never seeing the same person twice in the building. I laughed politely and he decided to continue this conversation.
Glancing at his watch the older gentleman noted the time, then glancing at me and noting my age and shopping bags he ventured this comment "It's a bit early for you to be off work, isn't it?"
My mistake was in acknowledging this question and answering it politely "Yes, well I'm unemployed at the moment, unfortunately."
Had I learned nothing? Did I not listen to my own rant and impassioned decision to avoid this situation and this conversation? No, apparently I did not. (In my defense I did expect them to leave the lift any second and leave me in peace).
He replied "And what would you like to do?"
My second mistake was to answer again. You see I have been raised to treat my elders with respect, which includes, in my book, being polite, truthful, and not refusing to engage in seemingly polite conversation. So I said this "Well, I would like to work in museums".
The grey haired man's tone changed at this and he practically sneered "What as a museum cleaner?"
I politely replied "No, more curatorial work"
At this point the older man turned towards the lift door as we were nearing the 19th floor where we both lived apparently and muttered something about people these days wanting all these fancy jobs.
The lift door opened and with excellent dramatic timing he wheeled his shopping trolley out of the lift and shouted, without even looking at me "Get a REAL job!" as he stomped towards his door.
Then the woman with him jostled past me, hitting me with her shopping as she said "This is the 19th floor" as if I would have forgotten when I also live there, making no apology for the rude comment just shouted at me, and left.
Speechless I exited the lift and stared at their backs as they entered their flat to the right of the lift while I fiddled with the keys to my flat located just to the left of the lift.
I entered my flat feeling horrible and angry. He asked me what I wanted to do and then told me it wasn't a real job. Not a real job? Every curator across the world, who has studied for years, and then works for years, to preserve the history of the world for you to see would be truly thrilled to learn you do not view their jobs as real, I am sure.
He may have been excused for saying I should try to get a more entry-level position or a more basic job if I had waxed eloquent on the difficulties of finding museum work and whinged about this being the sole reason for my unemployment. He certainly cannot be excused for such a comment when he asked me what I wanted to do. A personal question about my preference or desire, my dreams and career aspirations should not be met with such judgement. What right does he have to ask? I should have told him it was none of his business in the first place.
How dare he ask me what I want to do and then assume I'm not trying to apply for anything else. He asked what I wanted to do. I told him. He shouted at me. I cannot imagine a scenario in which this is acceptable.
And what in his mind qualifies as a REAL job? People who get paid are engaged in real jobs. I could say that I want to be a professional cloud watcher and he could scoff that I should get a real job. Nobody I know of gets paid to lie on a hill and watch clouds. But that's not what he meant.
He clearly didn't think highly of cleaners with his little sneer. And cleaning is a productive and taxing job, certainly real, and it contributes to society. So, what does count? Is it that no education is required for a cleaner that makes it a job to sneer at? I'll have you know that to be a heavy objects handler in a museum, a manual job, you must have certificates in the use of forklifts. I have two degrees and I am not qualified to do their job. However, if education is the requirement, curators typically come with quite a bit of education.
Perhaps the real problem in his mind is the so called "fancy" nature of it. I'm guessing he thinks I should get a job in retail because museums are too "fancy". Or maybe he thinks that something in business is better. However, it is typical for business jobs to require education too.
I think what he really means is that my goals are too lofty and I should settle for a more basic entry-level position and job. But he has no idea what I've been applying to. How dare he judge me that way based on an innocent answer to a question about my preferences. And if I apply everywhere else what is wrong with admitting that I would prefer to work in museums? Excuse me for having aspirations and dreams. Pardon me for wishing to put my fancy education to a good use in a fancy job.
I had to stand in the lift and the hallway with a man who thought it appropriate to pry into my life and then judge me without any knowledge of the particulars of my circumstance.
He might be pleased to know that I have accepted a retail position where I work full time babysitting books and customers you do not seem to understand alphabetical order. I wonder if he thinks that working myself to the bone lifting, moving, organizing and selling books is a real job. The reality is that I get paid and it is a real job, whatever he may choose to say on the subject. And the truth is that I don't care. Now that I'm not emotionally vulnerable, i.e. unemployed, I really don't care what he thinks. Or what anyone else thinks. It may not be my dream but it does pay for my chocolate habit.
And as for all those people who have anything to say about it. I give you Roy from the IT Crowd...
MY LIFE.
I know, I know. It was in my last post that I made a decision to avoid people til I had calmed down and found some peace with myself and my fellow man. However, I utterly failed. I was not able to bring myself to publish this post til just recently, but you will not believe the disastrous timing I have. One day I vow to calm down and avoid conversations about my state of unemployment, and then, on the very next day, this happens.
I went out to buy food. A seemingly harmless pursuit, wouldn't you say?
Wrong.
I did not know it at the time but this very act of leaving my house for food caused me to fail in my resolution and left me not only speechless but also horrifically angry and depressed a mere handful of hours after the commencement of my noble and clever plan.
The journey to the shop started well, as with most things that go unaccountably and terribly sour. It was a pleasant enough day and I began with a stroll to the post office. Along the way I met a pleasant man and we shared a short conversation, near a particular (one might even say renowned) stretch of pavement, about how concerned and terribly saddened we were by the 2pm appearance of rowdy inebriates. We shook our heads, exchanged pleasantries, and wished each other a good day when we parted a few minutes later. All in all a good journey so far.
The post office was found precisely as expected. The queues were orderly, the stamps cheap, and the post satisfactorily sent on its way. This letter was only a few days late in being sent because I am not always prompt at replying to letters and even less so at actually posting them. That matter concluded, I admired some of the decaying grandeur of another age, mentally taking pictures of the pleasing architecture, even if it was covered over in peeling paint, and I made my unhurried way to the store in order to procure essentials. Shampoo and laundry soap made it into my basket along with a few various chocolate consumables and the few "good-for-you" foods that completed my shop.
I was feeling productive and happy. So far everything had gone as I had hoped. Everything was uneventful. I made the long walk home and was pleased that my troublesome elbow was not causing me too much pain on this day. It was not long before I arrived at my corner of London. I made it inside my building and then, I noticed the people. The people waiting for the lift.
Which people, you might wonder? Well I hardly knew that I would be so violently opposed to them in a few minutes, but here they were. A couple, slightly older, and a solitary gentleman, they waited with me silently at the door to the lift. The couple had also been shopping and when the lift door opened we had a bit of bother fitting all four of us and our shopping bags into the lift comfortably. It is a narrow lift and it is usually best for me to be at the back as I live on the highest floor, as did they apparently. The solitary gentleman said nothing and exited on the second floor causing a bit of reshuffling and a comment from the older gentleman that it was a bit like Piccadilly Circus in our lift with all the bumping into people, coming and going, and never seeing the same person twice in the building. I laughed politely and he decided to continue this conversation.
Glancing at his watch the older gentleman noted the time, then glancing at me and noting my age and shopping bags he ventured this comment "It's a bit early for you to be off work, isn't it?"
My mistake was in acknowledging this question and answering it politely "Yes, well I'm unemployed at the moment, unfortunately."
Had I learned nothing? Did I not listen to my own rant and impassioned decision to avoid this situation and this conversation? No, apparently I did not. (In my defense I did expect them to leave the lift any second and leave me in peace).
He replied "And what would you like to do?"
My second mistake was to answer again. You see I have been raised to treat my elders with respect, which includes, in my book, being polite, truthful, and not refusing to engage in seemingly polite conversation. So I said this "Well, I would like to work in museums".
The grey haired man's tone changed at this and he practically sneered "What as a museum cleaner?"
I politely replied "No, more curatorial work"
At this point the older man turned towards the lift door as we were nearing the 19th floor where we both lived apparently and muttered something about people these days wanting all these fancy jobs.
The lift door opened and with excellent dramatic timing he wheeled his shopping trolley out of the lift and shouted, without even looking at me "Get a REAL job!" as he stomped towards his door.
Then the woman with him jostled past me, hitting me with her shopping as she said "This is the 19th floor" as if I would have forgotten when I also live there, making no apology for the rude comment just shouted at me, and left.
Speechless I exited the lift and stared at their backs as they entered their flat to the right of the lift while I fiddled with the keys to my flat located just to the left of the lift.
I entered my flat feeling horrible and angry. He asked me what I wanted to do and then told me it wasn't a real job. Not a real job? Every curator across the world, who has studied for years, and then works for years, to preserve the history of the world for you to see would be truly thrilled to learn you do not view their jobs as real, I am sure.
He may have been excused for saying I should try to get a more entry-level position or a more basic job if I had waxed eloquent on the difficulties of finding museum work and whinged about this being the sole reason for my unemployment. He certainly cannot be excused for such a comment when he asked me what I wanted to do. A personal question about my preference or desire, my dreams and career aspirations should not be met with such judgement. What right does he have to ask? I should have told him it was none of his business in the first place.
How dare he ask me what I want to do and then assume I'm not trying to apply for anything else. He asked what I wanted to do. I told him. He shouted at me. I cannot imagine a scenario in which this is acceptable.
And what in his mind qualifies as a REAL job? People who get paid are engaged in real jobs. I could say that I want to be a professional cloud watcher and he could scoff that I should get a real job. Nobody I know of gets paid to lie on a hill and watch clouds. But that's not what he meant.
He clearly didn't think highly of cleaners with his little sneer. And cleaning is a productive and taxing job, certainly real, and it contributes to society. So, what does count? Is it that no education is required for a cleaner that makes it a job to sneer at? I'll have you know that to be a heavy objects handler in a museum, a manual job, you must have certificates in the use of forklifts. I have two degrees and I am not qualified to do their job. However, if education is the requirement, curators typically come with quite a bit of education.
Perhaps the real problem in his mind is the so called "fancy" nature of it. I'm guessing he thinks I should get a job in retail because museums are too "fancy". Or maybe he thinks that something in business is better. However, it is typical for business jobs to require education too.
I think what he really means is that my goals are too lofty and I should settle for a more basic entry-level position and job. But he has no idea what I've been applying to. How dare he judge me that way based on an innocent answer to a question about my preferences. And if I apply everywhere else what is wrong with admitting that I would prefer to work in museums? Excuse me for having aspirations and dreams. Pardon me for wishing to put my fancy education to a good use in a fancy job.
I had to stand in the lift and the hallway with a man who thought it appropriate to pry into my life and then judge me without any knowledge of the particulars of my circumstance.
He might be pleased to know that I have accepted a retail position where I work full time babysitting books and customers you do not seem to understand alphabetical order. I wonder if he thinks that working myself to the bone lifting, moving, organizing and selling books is a real job. The reality is that I get paid and it is a real job, whatever he may choose to say on the subject. And the truth is that I don't care. Now that I'm not emotionally vulnerable, i.e. unemployed, I really don't care what he thinks. Or what anyone else thinks. It may not be my dream but it does pay for my chocolate habit.
And as for all those people who have anything to say about it. I give you Roy from the IT Crowd...
Tuesday, 17 September 2013
Unemployment brings out my hermit side
Being under-employed makes me even more antisocial than normal. I know, that's hard to imagine considering I'm not the touchy feely type and I've already admitted to being a misanthrope. But really, I'm not Oscar the Grouch, I promise.
It's just that sometimes I just really don't want to talk to people. Especially when I just don't feel like having any conversation that remotely deals with my life. It's impossible to have meaningless conversations that don't even tangentially come into contact with some facts about your life. For instance, any conversation with someone you have just met or hardly know inevitably ends up here:
"So... what do YOU do?"
Stop me if I'm wrong... Do your conversations with new people always end up here eventually or not? Yep, that's what I thought. So, this is how mine typically end...
"Oh you mean me?" I ask hoping desperately the answer is no. Stalling for time with this last desperate question.
"Yes, I feel like I've been talking too much about me. So, what do you do?" persistently and annoyingly curious person.
Damn. Did it occur to you that perhaps I would prefer to talk about anything other than myself? No, of course it didn't. And now you've asked me the worst question possible. The one that leads to all the others. If only it was polite to stomp off every so often without a word. Sigh...
"Well, at the moment I'm volunteering at a museum and looking for work." I finish quickly drinking something so I don't have to see that look in their eyes.
The worst part of being unemployed isn't the financial trouble, though that is worrying, or the job hunting stress, though that can be exhausting, or the self doubt you wake up to every morning, though that is depressing. No. The worst part of being unemployed is talking to everyone else about it.
Don't get me wrong, I do not enjoy being penniless and living like a pauper in one of the world's most expensive cities. Thank you London. But the worst thing about it is you have to admit to people that you are either under-employed or unemployed and now all your private doubts and worries are suddenly the subject of public debate. Oh, what are you looking for? Are you qualified for those positions? How long have you been unemployed? etc.
All your flaws are suddenly layed out for everyone to see and talk about and laugh at. Aired like so much dirty laundry. For some reason everyone believes they have a right to delve into your personal life here. If you had a job the conversation would go, "I do this, I love it," they would get bored and then move onto another less personal topic. But if you don't have one you must have failed somewhere and they believe they are allowed to poke around in this fascinating subject that is your life til they find out why. Stomping around on your feelings and raising up your doubts in the process.
The only reason to be unemployed, of course, is that you failed. Not that the economy is terrible or that you made choices better for your health that possibly made your career path more difficult. Nope, there is not other explanation. If you do not have a job currently you must be at fault somehow. You failed at your previous job or you are somehow responsible for failing in the job search process. You aren't applying to enough jobs, or the right ones, or you aren't writing the cover letter in the right way.
Never mind that you already wake up doubting yourself and your abilities during this time. Never mind that many vacancies are filled internally and you didn't have a chance to start with. Never mind that it's physically impossible to send out more job apps on some days (because you woke up and applied all day til you went to sleep). Clearly, it is somehow, in some way... all... your... fault. And worst of all they feel like they need to tell you so. These irritating people feel the need to point out all the places you could possibly have failed. Just in case you didn't know all the ways you might be failing.
Let me be clear. Friends offering suggestions is not the same thing. You can suggest different jobs to apply to or maybe even help edit a cover letter without being this sort of obnoxious intruder. These are the sorts of questions and judgements you have to endure from people you have never met before or barely know. Their judgements are least welcome and interestingly enough the most forthcoming.
Maybe I should start answering this question with increasing doses of sass. Oh me? Yes, I do lots of things. I do laundry, I read, I paint (but only in the afternoon when the light is right), I travel, I talk to friends across the world. Sometimes I skype with my parents or spend time volunteering at the museum.
Maybe I should leave it at that and let them imply that I'm unemployed. Maybe I should make them ask me what I do.
"Haha, laundry. NO, I meant what is your job?"
"Oh, so you want to know about my personal finances? Well I do declare, the impertinance of some people..." and I will storm out with high heels and my perfectly polished pearls reassuring me that I am a lady of.... wait, I don't own pearls. Ok, maybe I shouldn't opt for this one.
Maybe I should go a step further with the cheeky reply and invent my own job.
To do that I need to set straight some definitions. I think it is reasonable to define profession thusly.
Profession: the use of skills and abilities particular to the individual in the pursuit of financial stability
And if we define profession in this way then I can confidently say that I am a professional applier. I apply and apply and apply to jobs of every description, salary and location in the pursuit of financial stability. Now, I am not successful at achieving stability in this profession, but success is not part of my definition. It is all about the doing. And so am I.
Maybe my new strategy for this question should be more cunning. Perhaps when I have been trapped in this corner of the conversational ring and I am no longer able to dance my way out I will open with this little number.
"What do I do? Do you want the grim, sarcastic or fictional answer to that question?"
People, I am assured by many studies (on choice and on the anchoring effect which suggest people pick the middle option), when presented with three choices, two similar options, one of which is slightly more appealing, will typically choose that and ignore the third unrelated option. So, if I give them a choice of truth that is grim, truth that is sarcastic, or fiction, I am guessing they will opt for sarcastic, as the more appealing of similar choices and the middle option. And I'll pull out my "my life is fabulous I'm a professional applier" routine, which I will no doubt have perfected in no time.
Then again, they could surprise us all and persist in being nosy and annoying and demand the sordid details of my floundering career. If this is true, I shall not hold back and maybe, just maybe I'll make them sorry for asking. Next time take a hint, if I do not want to speak about myself just continue talking about you.
People and their questions. Pah. Mutter mumble mutter mutter.
Maybe I should just avoid talking to people for awhile. At least until I'm less grouchy, or maybe until I've sorted out some things in my life, for example, finally found a job. Then again, I'm in a bad mood and I'm thinking that my old plan of becoming a hermit permanently is sounding like a better and better idea. People. I don't really like people.
So, please excuse me while I go be antisocial and grouchy for awhile. Don't worry, it's probably just the weather and I'll be cheery again tomorrow. I hope... Disastrous rainy country! Grey and miserable...
Mutter mutter mutter....
It's just that sometimes I just really don't want to talk to people. Especially when I just don't feel like having any conversation that remotely deals with my life. It's impossible to have meaningless conversations that don't even tangentially come into contact with some facts about your life. For instance, any conversation with someone you have just met or hardly know inevitably ends up here:
"So... what do YOU do?"
Stop me if I'm wrong... Do your conversations with new people always end up here eventually or not? Yep, that's what I thought. So, this is how mine typically end...
"Oh you mean me?" I ask hoping desperately the answer is no. Stalling for time with this last desperate question.
"Yes, I feel like I've been talking too much about me. So, what do you do?" persistently and annoyingly curious person.
Damn. Did it occur to you that perhaps I would prefer to talk about anything other than myself? No, of course it didn't. And now you've asked me the worst question possible. The one that leads to all the others. If only it was polite to stomp off every so often without a word. Sigh...
"Well, at the moment I'm volunteering at a museum and looking for work." I finish quickly drinking something so I don't have to see that look in their eyes.
The worst part of being unemployed isn't the financial trouble, though that is worrying, or the job hunting stress, though that can be exhausting, or the self doubt you wake up to every morning, though that is depressing. No. The worst part of being unemployed is talking to everyone else about it.
Don't get me wrong, I do not enjoy being penniless and living like a pauper in one of the world's most expensive cities. Thank you London. But the worst thing about it is you have to admit to people that you are either under-employed or unemployed and now all your private doubts and worries are suddenly the subject of public debate. Oh, what are you looking for? Are you qualified for those positions? How long have you been unemployed? etc.
All your flaws are suddenly layed out for everyone to see and talk about and laugh at. Aired like so much dirty laundry. For some reason everyone believes they have a right to delve into your personal life here. If you had a job the conversation would go, "I do this, I love it," they would get bored and then move onto another less personal topic. But if you don't have one you must have failed somewhere and they believe they are allowed to poke around in this fascinating subject that is your life til they find out why. Stomping around on your feelings and raising up your doubts in the process.
The only reason to be unemployed, of course, is that you failed. Not that the economy is terrible or that you made choices better for your health that possibly made your career path more difficult. Nope, there is not other explanation. If you do not have a job currently you must be at fault somehow. You failed at your previous job or you are somehow responsible for failing in the job search process. You aren't applying to enough jobs, or the right ones, or you aren't writing the cover letter in the right way.
 |
| Being unemployed AND being forced to talk about it, leaves me feeling a bit vulnerable. |
Never mind that you already wake up doubting yourself and your abilities during this time. Never mind that many vacancies are filled internally and you didn't have a chance to start with. Never mind that it's physically impossible to send out more job apps on some days (because you woke up and applied all day til you went to sleep). Clearly, it is somehow, in some way... all... your... fault. And worst of all they feel like they need to tell you so. These irritating people feel the need to point out all the places you could possibly have failed. Just in case you didn't know all the ways you might be failing.
 |
| Please pick me. Please? I am trying really. |
Let me be clear. Friends offering suggestions is not the same thing. You can suggest different jobs to apply to or maybe even help edit a cover letter without being this sort of obnoxious intruder. These are the sorts of questions and judgements you have to endure from people you have never met before or barely know. Their judgements are least welcome and interestingly enough the most forthcoming.
Maybe I should start answering this question with increasing doses of sass. Oh me? Yes, I do lots of things. I do laundry, I read, I paint (but only in the afternoon when the light is right), I travel, I talk to friends across the world. Sometimes I skype with my parents or spend time volunteering at the museum.
Maybe I should leave it at that and let them imply that I'm unemployed. Maybe I should make them ask me what I do.
"Haha, laundry. NO, I meant what is your job?"
"Oh, so you want to know about my personal finances? Well I do declare, the impertinance of some people..." and I will storm out with high heels and my perfectly polished pearls reassuring me that I am a lady of.... wait, I don't own pearls. Ok, maybe I shouldn't opt for this one.
Maybe I should go a step further with the cheeky reply and invent my own job.
To do that I need to set straight some definitions. I think it is reasonable to define profession thusly.
Profession: the use of skills and abilities particular to the individual in the pursuit of financial stability
And if we define profession in this way then I can confidently say that I am a professional applier. I apply and apply and apply to jobs of every description, salary and location in the pursuit of financial stability. Now, I am not successful at achieving stability in this profession, but success is not part of my definition. It is all about the doing. And so am I.
Maybe my new strategy for this question should be more cunning. Perhaps when I have been trapped in this corner of the conversational ring and I am no longer able to dance my way out I will open with this little number.
"What do I do? Do you want the grim, sarcastic or fictional answer to that question?"
People, I am assured by many studies (on choice and on the anchoring effect which suggest people pick the middle option), when presented with three choices, two similar options, one of which is slightly more appealing, will typically choose that and ignore the third unrelated option. So, if I give them a choice of truth that is grim, truth that is sarcastic, or fiction, I am guessing they will opt for sarcastic, as the more appealing of similar choices and the middle option. And I'll pull out my "my life is fabulous I'm a professional applier" routine, which I will no doubt have perfected in no time.
Then again, they could surprise us all and persist in being nosy and annoying and demand the sordid details of my floundering career. If this is true, I shall not hold back and maybe, just maybe I'll make them sorry for asking. Next time take a hint, if I do not want to speak about myself just continue talking about you.
People and their questions. Pah. Mutter mumble mutter mutter.
Maybe I should just avoid talking to people for awhile. At least until I'm less grouchy, or maybe until I've sorted out some things in my life, for example, finally found a job. Then again, I'm in a bad mood and I'm thinking that my old plan of becoming a hermit permanently is sounding like a better and better idea. People. I don't really like people.
So, please excuse me while I go be antisocial and grouchy for awhile. Don't worry, it's probably just the weather and I'll be cheery again tomorrow. I hope... Disastrous rainy country! Grey and miserable...
Mutter mutter mutter....
Sunday, 23 December 2012
It's nearly H-Hour and I'm frazzled
A mere handful of hours away from the commencement of my operation, operation debug, found me head in hands slumped against a wall and soaked in tears. I had hit a low point literally and emotionally. I was painfully aware of the fact that I was only hours away from my own D-Day operation and the stress of the final preparations was almost too much to handle. But it wasn't the stress that finally broke me. So what was it that brought me to tears? And what was this operation?
Two weeks ago on D-8 day (not long before Christmas) our sources informed us of a major problem. Our defenses had been breached and the enemy had infiltrated our house. The second story bedroom belonging to my housemate had bedbugs. The week before we had been alerted to the potential threat of infiltration. We investigated with caution and could not confirm or deny the breach. That is when we brought in the expert. The pesticide man arrived and with a few questions he set about looking into our problem. Within a matter of minutes we had proof that our security had indeed been breached in a most serious manner. The enemy had made great inroads deep into our territory and had established itself quietly while we were busy fighting other battles. By the time we realized that we had a problem the enemy had already established a large enough presence to show itself boldly.
What to do next? Since the bedbugs had surprise on their side we hardly knew what hit us and the initial days after the assault found us reeling in shock. In order to minimize casualties my roommate pulled out of the area in order to regroup for the attack. We knew we had to act fast to repel the invaders and regain our territory. An emergency war council was called. We needed to hit hard in order to win. This was one operation that could not be done in half measures. The list of preparations seemed endless but we set the D-Day operation for Thursday. Every room needed to be cleaned from top to bottom. The items all needed to be removed from drawers and shelves and sealed in plastic bags. This way contamination was sealed in and when objects were cleaned and placed in fresh plastic bags contamination was sealed out.
Armed with garbage bags (or bin liners as they call them in this soggy land) and cleaning supplies I tackled room after room. I began in the spare room and threw the odd left-over pillows into bags. While I had lost my first housemate's help on the first day when she abandoned her room, leaving that front empty, I lost the help of the second housemate to a business trip. To be fair to business, laziness and a native selfish air would have prevented him from being much help even in the event that he had stayed. So, it was me and my army of trash bags that lept into the fray.
In preparation for our D-Day operations I spent less time at the museum and more time in my house cleaning and prepping. D-7 day passed with cleaning, then D-6 day did the same. One by one the days flew faster and faster with the mountain of chores seeming to grow rather than dwindle. I was a hurricane of preparation. I packed things into bags, made sure pointy edges didn't tear through, tied everything securely and moved onto other items. I labelled and taped and moved things everywhere. I scrubbed the floors and the shelves and the drawers. I emptied and cleaned everything. I shredded countless old useless bank statements and took loads of rubbish out to the street, including bags of things other people had been too lazy to remove themselves.
So, the night before our D-Day operation was to be launched I was a swirling dervish of mad cleaning activity. I was running low on supplies, energy and patience. The enormous roles of trash bags had dwindled to a shockingly small amount left. I was pushing around some furniture to get at the really hard to clean bits of floor in the narrow part of my room when I ran out of paper towels. I realized I needed more towels to finish off my corner and that I was running low on time. I lept to my feet and stood up hard underneath the low hanging eve in that section of my room. The low slanted ceiling raced downwards to meet my head as I raced up to meet it with astonishing force.
The impact left me stunned and speechless for a few interminable moments, half crouched, half standing under the ceiling at the back of my room. Then as the pain started to set in I put my hands gingerly to my head and literally sank down the wall. The pain. The stress. The tiredness. They were all overwhelming and I suddenly found myself in tears and unable to stop crying. (And I'd already packed the tissues somewhere I couldn't find them. Great!) A few moments later I realized that there was nothing I could do but carry on. Nobody could or would help me and it all needed to be done. So I picked myself up and carried on.
Over by the paper towels I found a lint roller. I picked it up to put it away and found that it had no cover and was too sticky to just pack away as is. Absentmindedly I rolled it back and forth on the edge of the dresser top thinking what to do with it. It stuck to the dresser and picked up a bit of dust. Suddenly I had an idea, a wonderful, terrible idea. I decided to use the lint roller to pick up the dust and dirt in my room. It wouldn't just push the dust around and leave it in the air. Everything would stick onto the lint roller and go directly into the bin. No mess, no fuss, no problem. At my lowest point I had stumbled onto a bit of an epiphany.
Slowly, with bin liners, cleaning supplies and lint rollers in hand I eliminated all the dust and dirt and bagged all of my possessions. Clothes, offices supplies and Christmas gifts alike all went into bags. At six in the morning I was nearly done. I took a quick nap and then got up to take the last of the trash out and do the final touches. H-hour was scheduled for 9am. Just after 9am the pesticide man arrived. I called a taxi and left him to begin the barrage on the bugs. It was H-hour and the time for the reckoning. I left my house feeling a bit like the Grinch who stole Christmas. I had bagged up everything and was ready to ruin their Christmas as they had tried to ruin mine.
I was ready to be done with the whole thing. At least I learned the power of a lint roller in cleaning shelves and other dusty surfaces, but nonetheless... Bah-humbug and good riddance!
Two weeks ago on D-8 day (not long before Christmas) our sources informed us of a major problem. Our defenses had been breached and the enemy had infiltrated our house. The second story bedroom belonging to my housemate had bedbugs. The week before we had been alerted to the potential threat of infiltration. We investigated with caution and could not confirm or deny the breach. That is when we brought in the expert. The pesticide man arrived and with a few questions he set about looking into our problem. Within a matter of minutes we had proof that our security had indeed been breached in a most serious manner. The enemy had made great inroads deep into our territory and had established itself quietly while we were busy fighting other battles. By the time we realized that we had a problem the enemy had already established a large enough presence to show itself boldly.
What to do next? Since the bedbugs had surprise on their side we hardly knew what hit us and the initial days after the assault found us reeling in shock. In order to minimize casualties my roommate pulled out of the area in order to regroup for the attack. We knew we had to act fast to repel the invaders and regain our territory. An emergency war council was called. We needed to hit hard in order to win. This was one operation that could not be done in half measures. The list of preparations seemed endless but we set the D-Day operation for Thursday. Every room needed to be cleaned from top to bottom. The items all needed to be removed from drawers and shelves and sealed in plastic bags. This way contamination was sealed in and when objects were cleaned and placed in fresh plastic bags contamination was sealed out.
Armed with garbage bags (or bin liners as they call them in this soggy land) and cleaning supplies I tackled room after room. I began in the spare room and threw the odd left-over pillows into bags. While I had lost my first housemate's help on the first day when she abandoned her room, leaving that front empty, I lost the help of the second housemate to a business trip. To be fair to business, laziness and a native selfish air would have prevented him from being much help even in the event that he had stayed. So, it was me and my army of trash bags that lept into the fray.
In preparation for our D-Day operations I spent less time at the museum and more time in my house cleaning and prepping. D-7 day passed with cleaning, then D-6 day did the same. One by one the days flew faster and faster with the mountain of chores seeming to grow rather than dwindle. I was a hurricane of preparation. I packed things into bags, made sure pointy edges didn't tear through, tied everything securely and moved onto other items. I labelled and taped and moved things everywhere. I scrubbed the floors and the shelves and the drawers. I emptied and cleaned everything. I shredded countless old useless bank statements and took loads of rubbish out to the street, including bags of things other people had been too lazy to remove themselves.
So, the night before our D-Day operation was to be launched I was a swirling dervish of mad cleaning activity. I was running low on supplies, energy and patience. The enormous roles of trash bags had dwindled to a shockingly small amount left. I was pushing around some furniture to get at the really hard to clean bits of floor in the narrow part of my room when I ran out of paper towels. I realized I needed more towels to finish off my corner and that I was running low on time. I lept to my feet and stood up hard underneath the low hanging eve in that section of my room. The low slanted ceiling raced downwards to meet my head as I raced up to meet it with astonishing force.
The impact left me stunned and speechless for a few interminable moments, half crouched, half standing under the ceiling at the back of my room. Then as the pain started to set in I put my hands gingerly to my head and literally sank down the wall. The pain. The stress. The tiredness. They were all overwhelming and I suddenly found myself in tears and unable to stop crying. (And I'd already packed the tissues somewhere I couldn't find them. Great!) A few moments later I realized that there was nothing I could do but carry on. Nobody could or would help me and it all needed to be done. So I picked myself up and carried on.
Over by the paper towels I found a lint roller. I picked it up to put it away and found that it had no cover and was too sticky to just pack away as is. Absentmindedly I rolled it back and forth on the edge of the dresser top thinking what to do with it. It stuck to the dresser and picked up a bit of dust. Suddenly I had an idea, a wonderful, terrible idea. I decided to use the lint roller to pick up the dust and dirt in my room. It wouldn't just push the dust around and leave it in the air. Everything would stick onto the lint roller and go directly into the bin. No mess, no fuss, no problem. At my lowest point I had stumbled onto a bit of an epiphany.
Slowly, with bin liners, cleaning supplies and lint rollers in hand I eliminated all the dust and dirt and bagged all of my possessions. Clothes, offices supplies and Christmas gifts alike all went into bags. At six in the morning I was nearly done. I took a quick nap and then got up to take the last of the trash out and do the final touches. H-hour was scheduled for 9am. Just after 9am the pesticide man arrived. I called a taxi and left him to begin the barrage on the bugs. It was H-hour and the time for the reckoning. I left my house feeling a bit like the Grinch who stole Christmas. I had bagged up everything and was ready to ruin their Christmas as they had tried to ruin mine.
I was ready to be done with the whole thing. At least I learned the power of a lint roller in cleaning shelves and other dusty surfaces, but nonetheless... Bah-humbug and good riddance!
Saturday, 1 December 2012
On a scale of 1 to 10 I'm an Um...
True insanity cannot be measured. On the light side of things a one is mild insanity. Then there is intense insanity. And then there is, well, me, at whatever strange alternate level of insanity it is that I seem to exist in. I am more of the "Um... okaaaay" type of insanity and I've had another one of those days.
You know how some days you are just too tired to care? You stayed up late you woke up early? Your reaction to sunshine and the alarm was not the typical sleepy groan but more of the melodramatic face-plant into the pillow? Do you know what I'm talking about? Well, I had one of those days today. I was not tired enough to be grumpy, just tired enough to make absolutely no sense.
At work I was meant to be updating my client's social media profiles. I barely know how to update my own. What makes you think I'm qualified to update a financial client's profiles? I had to research how to effectively use hashtags on twitter for businesses. Yes, I do actually have a twitter account but I'm not really sure what to do with it. I certainly don't know how it's used for business. And Delicious. What is the point of that site? Is it really a directory of links or is it really like twitter? Do people actually look at your Delicious account or is it more meant as a list for you? Why is it called Delicious? There is nothing tasty about it. I just don't understand. I know nothing about technology and social media. I really am the world's worst online marketing employee.
A day of staring at the screen trying to decide if articles were interesting enough to catch attention, but not so interesting as to offend my financial client, sent me further into my strange mood. Suddenly I was staring at the weirdest abbreviations and I couldn't keep my mind from wandering. I muttered "SM?" to my computer. My colleague looked up with a cocked eyebrow and asked "did you say S&M?" Social media does not abbreviate well it would seem. We were both tired and this was much funnier than it should have been. We decided that after a day of work I would clearly be an expert in S&M and loans for my finance client.
Not long after lunch our big boss arrived with two teenage girls and starting filming the boot of his car in the parking lot below. Well, at least that was what we heard. There was apparently too much fast driving and some sort of flipping involved as well. We came up with kidnapping theories and somewhere along the line nearly invented an office rumour that he had two families and was trying to keep them from knowing about each other and this somehow involved a blackmail video filmed from the office of a car boot. We are still working on it. We may or may not send round an email on Monday asking the burning question of what on earth they were actually doing.
As the day progressed work got more boring. When you start to read the phrase "pitch craft ideas to x person" as witch craft, and you giggle to yourself, you know you are reaching that stage of tired where everything is funny. Next writing emails that proposed an article about loans, I asked the blogger if they would be interested in it and even this caused me to giggle inanely to myself. Interested. Loans. Interest. Hehehe. Clearly I had not slept enough, I had been at work too long and I had really, truly, gone over the edge. I was past the point of no return. Returns... hahahaha.
We decided to count the seconds, not minutes until we were done with work. This led to the realization that seconds seem so much shorter than minutes and even a great number of them somehow feels short. But we went further, by the time we arrived in town on the bus at about 6pm there were roughly 2,009,000 seconds left until Christmas.
We stopped in at Primark, a work friend and I, and found the clothes to be quite exotic. We found zebra stripes in one row. And then rounded a corner to find the rest of the zoo. Every variety of great cat imaginable was there as well as owls, ducks, and dragonflies. Dragonflies are there to support the ecosystem not necessarily as an attraction, but anyhooo. We had fun trying on and making fun of everything we could get our hands on. It's more fun this way.
Eventually we left for food at McDonald's and met some very interesting and slightly overly friendly guys. They wanted to know how old we thought they were. It became a big game. They tried to guess our age and my friend tried to convince them she was 29 with two children. They didn't believe her and were triumphant when she revealed that she is only 24. Though they had a hard time believing that I was 26. They also didn't believe that we worked at a marketing company. True it has a funny name, but they suggested that we looked like we worked at Nando's instead. I'm not sure that wasn't an insult. Ah well. It was funny to mess with them.
On our way out and to the train station we started to see snow flakes. Really large ones, all of a sudden and not in a flurry, just randomly. It was suspicious. Turns out it was only snowing on one street of the whole town. I'm guessing it was a snow making machine and possible marketing ploy? I don't know but it was odd and we weren't the only two who noticed. Needless to say it was a strange day. It was almost surreally funny and strange. I mean, who has ever heard of it only snowing on one street? Yeah, I'm going to have to investigate this tomorrow.
For now I'm going to sit indoors all snuggly with some hot chocolate and attempt to return to a state of semi normalcy, you know, mild insanity, and maybe even warm, cozy sleepiness.
You know how some days you are just too tired to care? You stayed up late you woke up early? Your reaction to sunshine and the alarm was not the typical sleepy groan but more of the melodramatic face-plant into the pillow? Do you know what I'm talking about? Well, I had one of those days today. I was not tired enough to be grumpy, just tired enough to make absolutely no sense.
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| Photo Source: Pinterest |
At work I was meant to be updating my client's social media profiles. I barely know how to update my own. What makes you think I'm qualified to update a financial client's profiles? I had to research how to effectively use hashtags on twitter for businesses. Yes, I do actually have a twitter account but I'm not really sure what to do with it. I certainly don't know how it's used for business. And Delicious. What is the point of that site? Is it really a directory of links or is it really like twitter? Do people actually look at your Delicious account or is it more meant as a list for you? Why is it called Delicious? There is nothing tasty about it. I just don't understand. I know nothing about technology and social media. I really am the world's worst online marketing employee.
A day of staring at the screen trying to decide if articles were interesting enough to catch attention, but not so interesting as to offend my financial client, sent me further into my strange mood. Suddenly I was staring at the weirdest abbreviations and I couldn't keep my mind from wandering. I muttered "SM?" to my computer. My colleague looked up with a cocked eyebrow and asked "did you say S&M?" Social media does not abbreviate well it would seem. We were both tired and this was much funnier than it should have been. We decided that after a day of work I would clearly be an expert in S&M and loans for my finance client.
Not long after lunch our big boss arrived with two teenage girls and starting filming the boot of his car in the parking lot below. Well, at least that was what we heard. There was apparently too much fast driving and some sort of flipping involved as well. We came up with kidnapping theories and somewhere along the line nearly invented an office rumour that he had two families and was trying to keep them from knowing about each other and this somehow involved a blackmail video filmed from the office of a car boot. We are still working on it. We may or may not send round an email on Monday asking the burning question of what on earth they were actually doing.
As the day progressed work got more boring. When you start to read the phrase "pitch craft ideas to x person" as witch craft, and you giggle to yourself, you know you are reaching that stage of tired where everything is funny. Next writing emails that proposed an article about loans, I asked the blogger if they would be interested in it and even this caused me to giggle inanely to myself. Interested. Loans. Interest. Hehehe. Clearly I had not slept enough, I had been at work too long and I had really, truly, gone over the edge. I was past the point of no return. Returns... hahahaha.
 |
| I'm bored. Are we done yet? Photo Source: Flickr by Holster |
We decided to count the seconds, not minutes until we were done with work. This led to the realization that seconds seem so much shorter than minutes and even a great number of them somehow feels short. But we went further, by the time we arrived in town on the bus at about 6pm there were roughly 2,009,000 seconds left until Christmas.
We stopped in at Primark, a work friend and I, and found the clothes to be quite exotic. We found zebra stripes in one row. And then rounded a corner to find the rest of the zoo. Every variety of great cat imaginable was there as well as owls, ducks, and dragonflies. Dragonflies are there to support the ecosystem not necessarily as an attraction, but anyhooo. We had fun trying on and making fun of everything we could get our hands on. It's more fun this way.
Eventually we left for food at McDonald's and met some very interesting and slightly overly friendly guys. They wanted to know how old we thought they were. It became a big game. They tried to guess our age and my friend tried to convince them she was 29 with two children. They didn't believe her and were triumphant when she revealed that she is only 24. Though they had a hard time believing that I was 26. They also didn't believe that we worked at a marketing company. True it has a funny name, but they suggested that we looked like we worked at Nando's instead. I'm not sure that wasn't an insult. Ah well. It was funny to mess with them.
 |
| Eeyore wonders why and how it always snows only on him. Photo Source: Flickr by Nikoretro |
On our way out and to the train station we started to see snow flakes. Really large ones, all of a sudden and not in a flurry, just randomly. It was suspicious. Turns out it was only snowing on one street of the whole town. I'm guessing it was a snow making machine and possible marketing ploy? I don't know but it was odd and we weren't the only two who noticed. Needless to say it was a strange day. It was almost surreally funny and strange. I mean, who has ever heard of it only snowing on one street? Yeah, I'm going to have to investigate this tomorrow.
For now I'm going to sit indoors all snuggly with some hot chocolate and attempt to return to a state of semi normalcy, you know, mild insanity, and maybe even warm, cozy sleepiness.
Monday, 17 September 2012
Calm me down...
Things I hate
Do you ever have days where you simply get tired of being told what to do? Where a part of you simply snaps? Where you feel like enduring this treatment for even one more second will cause your blood to literally boil your heart to pound out of your chest and your teeth to grind each other into dust because you've been clenching them that hard?Have you ever felt that way? Have you ever had to pretend you didn't want to leap from your chair and shove your notebook down someones throat screaming with rage and instead put on a smile?
Today I had to sit through a meeting pretending I wasn't angry while I was first told all the things I could and couldn't do and then personally attacked for having a different personality and a different way of working. Never mind that my way works for me and my work gets done and my executives and clients are happy with it. My way doesn't align with the almighty freaking procedure by which everyone must live and die.
I had to clench my teeth not to say anything upsetting. Oh, so you think I'll learn to like this thing antithetical to my personality and that I'll magically start thinking the way you do and that your precious organizational system will make sense to me? Don't touch my systems. Don't tell me how I must work. You don't think I've tried overcoming some of my personality quirks? I'm twenty five and I know what I can and cannot cope with to be productive. If I wanted to spend my day doing the things you are proposing I would have signed up for a different job. I was hired to be creative, to think differently and to come up with ideas and content they couldn't imagine. Don't sit there and tell me what I'm capable of or what I will like. You have no idea who I am. When my work starts having problems then you can talk to me. Until then go fix things that are actually broken and leave me and my working system alone.
Things I love
So now to combat all those negative thoughts I need to think of reasons to be thankful. Number one, family. I have an incredible family. They love me and support me and are there for me always.2. I have amazing friends. Granted they are spread all around the world, but nonetheless. Come to think of it I am very blessed to have people I love that also love me.
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| My friends do silly things like take pub quizzes and bet on how few we can get right. |
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| Another great M&S reduced food. Mmm! |
5. I am thankful that I have a job that pays my bills and therefore I am not homeless.
6. I'm not homeless. It's much too cold in this climate to be homeless.
7. I'm alive. And I can appreciate the joy and pain of life and all it's beauties.
8. The world is actually full of beauty.
9. The world is full of purple.
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| Random doorway in Leeds |
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| Leeds Canal |
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| Leeds Canal |
13. The world is full of music.
14. I can sing any time I want.
15. I have the chance to do a bit of traveling here and there. Including to London to visit some of my amazing friends.
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| And yes, I sang the Portobello Road song from Bedknobs and Broomsticks while I walked along this street. |
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| Street painter at Notting Hill festival in London |
16. I have time to paint and draw and read for fun
17. Books. I am utterly thankful for books.
18. I am thankful for my kindergarten teachers who valiantly struggled with a stubborn five year old who was convinced she'd never learn how to read and somehow not only taught her how to read but also helped her find a joy in it. (Though a joy of reading must mostly come from my father, an absolutely voracious reader.)
19. I am thankful for rainy days reading under snuggly covers.
20. I am thankful for the written word in general as it allows us to communicate beautiful sentiments, talk to family and friends, express our deepest emotions, and do so with an eloquence denied other forms of communication.
21. I am thankful for my brain, even if it causes me a few sleepless nights here and there.
22. I am thankful for flowers and green things generally
23. I am thankful for umbrellas that keep me dry on my way to work and back
24. I am thankful for rainboots that allow me to jump in puddles and stay dry.
25. I am thankful for chocolate.
Really there are a lot of things to be thankful for. I just need to think about those things and not get all annoyed by trivial things at work.
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
Mad Images
I'm in a weird mood today. Yes even weirder than usual. So, I'm going to leave you with a few bizarre and wonderful images I've collected recently. These images not only suit my strange sense of humour, and my weird mood, they also serve to illustrate just how mad the whole world is.
I was not the person who decided to make this particular alcoholic beverage in a monk shaped bottle with a rope wrapped around his waist and all its lettering done in gothic scripts. (Of course if I was consulted I would have approved very heartily of this plan). I did, however, give him a hat and dub him Mr. Monk. I think he must be a Franciscan and therefore fantastic.
These strange cage-frame men were in a workshop I happened to pass by one day after work. It is hard to tell with all the glare through the windows, but these cage-frame men are standing by big tools in some sort of machine shop. They look like they are about to come to life, switch on various tools and carry on working on their latest projects.
Before leaving work for the day a few of the girls giggled while they crafted this addition to the fruit box. According to the inscription written on a post-it note this is Barbara Banana the Fruit Box Security Officer. Apparently she is guarding the granny smiths because somebody loves them. But it seems to be a part of her role to also guard pears and protect strawberry children too. Her weapon of enforcement, and of course a natural choice for security, is a spoon. Her uniform appears to include a night-cap or strange pointy hat. Maybe it's the long nose, maybe it's the crookedy teeth, or maybe it's the allusion to witches with her pointy hat, but I think this Barbara can really only be described as a crone, albeit a slightly amusing and charming one.
Apparently I am not a good pirate, for I do not know how to plunder. Therefore I sadly, must work. Some days plundering just sounds so much more appealing. Ah well.
So there you have it a collection of some strange images and things I've seen of late.
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| Mr. Monk a.k.a. Frangelico |
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| Cage-frame men in a workshop |
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| Barbara Banana - Fruit Box Security Officer |
Before leaving work for the day a few of the girls giggled while they crafted this addition to the fruit box. According to the inscription written on a post-it note this is Barbara Banana the Fruit Box Security Officer. Apparently she is guarding the granny smiths because somebody loves them. But it seems to be a part of her role to also guard pears and protect strawberry children too. Her weapon of enforcement, and of course a natural choice for security, is a spoon. Her uniform appears to include a night-cap or strange pointy hat. Maybe it's the long nose, maybe it's the crookedy teeth, or maybe it's the allusion to witches with her pointy hat, but I think this Barbara can really only be described as a crone, albeit a slightly amusing and charming one.
Apparently I am not a good pirate, for I do not know how to plunder. Therefore I sadly, must work. Some days plundering just sounds so much more appealing. Ah well.
So there you have it a collection of some strange images and things I've seen of late.
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