I cannot even express how thankful I am for you and all you have done for me. I hope that my brother and I were not too trying for you as children.
But to thank you for everything you have done for us, I am offering you this song. I know it doesn't make up for the fact that I'm not there on your birthday. But I hope it makes you smile.
I love you and I'm remembering all the fun we had growing up with you as our mother.
This is for you...
Saturday, 1 February 2014
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....
Tuesday, 18 June 2013
It's not belated, it's prolonged.
If I had been home for Father's Day I would have done all the traditional celebratory things. I would have brought my Dad donuts for breakfast and handed him a card and a book. If I we were lucky it would be one he hadn't bought for himself last week when he went to the bookstore, despite the house rules that he is banned from them one month prior to any major holiday or gift giving day. He always breaks this rule though. In our family obedience has never really been a strong suit.
Stubbornness we could probably win Olympic medals in. That is just the sort of family we are. When we decide on something there is really not much you can do about it. We are just that stubborn or focused. We do not have hobbies we have obsessions, a concept which one of my aunts explained perfectly by stating matter of factly that "If it is worth doing, it is worth over-doing".
This brings me to the part where I would like to make a wild claim (another family specialty). I am going to claim that if fathers are so important that they should have a day, a point I agree with, than they really ought be treated to more than just one day. One single day is not enough to celebrate our fathers, so I am extending it to the whole week. That is why I am writing today and not on Sunday. And not of course because I am belated in writing this post. Of course not.
So, as I am not there to bring my father all the right things I am going to tyrannically make demands from afar. You must eat red licorice. You must drink root beer. You must read a good book this week. And you must nap. These are the little things and the best things about life. So, do them and I will toast you from afar. Happy Father's Day, or week, Dad. xxx
Stubbornness we could probably win Olympic medals in. That is just the sort of family we are. When we decide on something there is really not much you can do about it. We are just that stubborn or focused. We do not have hobbies we have obsessions, a concept which one of my aunts explained perfectly by stating matter of factly that "If it is worth doing, it is worth over-doing".
 |
| Train-watching isn't just a hobby it's a passion. Or even a career! (I only partially jest, I am a Medievalist, you know.) |
This brings me to the part where I would like to make a wild claim (another family specialty). I am going to claim that if fathers are so important that they should have a day, a point I agree with, than they really ought be treated to more than just one day. One single day is not enough to celebrate our fathers, so I am extending it to the whole week. That is why I am writing today and not on Sunday. And not of course because I am belated in writing this post. Of course not.
So, as I am not there to bring my father all the right things I am going to tyrannically make demands from afar. You must eat red licorice. You must drink root beer. You must read a good book this week. And you must nap. These are the little things and the best things about life. So, do them and I will toast you from afar. Happy Father's Day, or week, Dad. xxx
Monday, 20 May 2013
Inexplicably Lovely
Today is one of those days that is simply lovely without a reason. Perhaps that isn't fair. There are lots of little reasons, but nothing incredibly big, exciting or extraordinary is happening to make today lovely. So, because there is a hint of sunshine behind these large London clouds, and because I am just in that sort of mood I am going to declare today a day for enjoying the little things. Today is a celebratory day. The sort of day you randomly buy yourself a cake to enjoy because it's a great day and why not?
So, here is some cake for us.
Wait, that's not quite right.... Hold on... Here try this.
Yep. That's better. Happy Merry Unbirthday to me and maybe even to you! Happy day! Let's celebrate with cake! It's just the sort of day that demands it, don't you think?
So, in celebration of this inexplicably lovely day, a day in which I am happy just to be alive, I am going to take a bit of time and be thankful for all the little things. For a start I am happy that someone came up with these cookies.
.jpg "Jazzie biscuits")
Not only are these cookies all pretty and colourful with sprinkles they even have this great name with little jazzie cookie mascots on the packaging.
Plus, when I see a cookie in a jazz hat with a cane saying jazzie I can just hear this distinct accent coming from its mouth. An accent that places more emphasis on the first syllable and turns the word into jazz-eh more than jazz-EE if that makes any sense at all. If not, well, then, just think about how cute he is with his little hat and so forth...
I am happy that this large wooden gate guards a house in Moortown, Leeds.
Doesn't it just make you smile that this sort of thing still exists? I would love to have a house behind such a gate.
To continue with architectural features I love that if you look closely you can find beautiful details everywhere. I liked the stone rose detail here.
And I love that under one of the arches on this same structure you can find a bunch of architectural details all in one place.
On the subject of architecture, I love finding random details in train stations. Details like this just make life more pleasant. Don't you think?
I just love it when you round a corner and find an unexpected Ferris wheel. I thought this one was lovely all lit up at night. It made my trip home from work more exciting.
I just love the way it lights up the whole street.
I am happy that some people actually take the time to create graffiti art rather than simply tagging a wall with misplaced words and strange lettering.
I don't know why, but I find this little guy quite compelling. I love the way he is peering out from beneath his glasses. I found him in Huddersfield and I just couldn't resist photographing him.
So there you have it. A number of randomly lovely things. The sorts of things that make my day. The sorts of things you don't expect to find but make you smile anyhow. There are so many of them out there. They are everywhere if you know how to look for them.
Now if you will excuse me I need to celebrate this inexplicably lovely merry unbirthday day with some cake. And if it is not too impertinent of me, I suggest you do the same. Unless of course it's actually your birthday. In which case, you may do better with a birthday party and perhaps an appropriately lettered birthday cake. However, I suspect that you, dear reader, are more likely in my situation and it is simply a merry unbirthday day. So have cake. It is after all a great day to be alive.
A merry unbirthday to all!
So, here is some cake for us.
So, in celebration of this inexplicably lovely day, a day in which I am happy just to be alive, I am going to take a bit of time and be thankful for all the little things. For a start I am happy that someone came up with these cookies.
.jpg "Jazzie biscuits")
I am happy that this large wooden gate guards a house in Moortown, Leeds.
To continue with architectural features I love that if you look closely you can find beautiful details everywhere. I liked the stone rose detail here.
On the subject of architecture, I love finding random details in train stations. Details like this just make life more pleasant. Don't you think?
I just love it when you round a corner and find an unexpected Ferris wheel. I thought this one was lovely all lit up at night. It made my trip home from work more exciting.
I am happy that some people actually take the time to create graffiti art rather than simply tagging a wall with misplaced words and strange lettering.
So there you have it. A number of randomly lovely things. The sorts of things that make my day. The sorts of things you don't expect to find but make you smile anyhow. There are so many of them out there. They are everywhere if you know how to look for them.
Now if you will excuse me I need to celebrate this inexplicably lovely merry unbirthday day with some cake. And if it is not too impertinent of me, I suggest you do the same. Unless of course it's actually your birthday. In which case, you may do better with a birthday party and perhaps an appropriately lettered birthday cake. However, I suspect that you, dear reader, are more likely in my situation and it is simply a merry unbirthday day. So have cake. It is after all a great day to be alive.
A merry unbirthday to all!
Sunday, 12 May 2013
Happy Mother's Day!
Dear Mom,
It is now officially Mother's Day in the US and therefore it is time for me to wish you a second and more official Happy Mother's Day.
If you were here I would take you for a walk to see all the lovely flowers that are out for spring. Spring in the UK is truly beautiful. This is not just because we are just way too excited to see the sun again.
Seeing as you are still not here however, I will simply have to make do with sending you a few pictures of flowers. So, here you have it, some flowers from a stroll around the UK.
These lovely pink flowers were blowing gently in a brisk Leeds wind.
I found them quite pretty.
Then I went for a stroll along the river in the adorable little town of Walton-on-Thames. Spring had arrived there too and graced a lovely old Medieval House.
Spring here really is lovely.
I hope that you are enjoying this fine spring day and there are loads of pretty flowers for you. Happy Mother's Day Mom.
I love you.
xxx
It is now officially Mother's Day in the US and therefore it is time for me to wish you a second and more official Happy Mother's Day.
If you were here I would take you for a walk to see all the lovely flowers that are out for spring. Spring in the UK is truly beautiful. This is not just because we are just way too excited to see the sun again.
Seeing as you are still not here however, I will simply have to make do with sending you a few pictures of flowers. So, here you have it, some flowers from a stroll around the UK.
These lovely pink flowers were blowing gently in a brisk Leeds wind.
I love you.
xxx
Wednesday, 27 March 2013
Breaking News: Mugger claims Scurvy made them do it!
Some day it will come to this. One day I will hardly be able to fend off the scurvy and the madness and I will simply snap. This will be my headline. Mugger claims "Scurvy made me do it!"
I can tell you are confused. That furrowed look on your brow, that raised eyebrow, that slightly narrowed eye tell all. You cannot understand what I am talking about. Well how could you? YOU do not have scurvy.
At first I just thought I was tired from working too hard and maybe the tiniest bit lazy. But then I realized the terrible truth. I was in line to buy my handful of bargains at M&S when realization struck. Out of all the things I could have selected to buy I had chosen to buy a lemon cake, a lemon mousse and a grapefruit. I wasn't just tired and lazy. I was craving fruit. I had scurvy! The hard yellow evidence was staring me straight in my scorbutic face.
Scorbutic, that's just such a great word. No, focus Madder Hatter, you must stay focused. Don't let the scurvy take you like this.
Ok, produce wallet, produce change, pay for citrusy products. Almost safe. No, the madness is taking over. The scurvy... It. Is. Too. Powerful.
I stumbled back to my desk at work, delirious with laughter and the sickness. I managed to obtain a spoon somehow in this state, peeled back the lid with trembling fingers and dug into the lemony mousse. Ahhh. The cure. I could feel the sugary lemony goodness fixing me. The madness slowly receded to a normal level and I went back to my work. I had been saved from the scurvy, but not before I had realized my fate.
You see, it seems to be my fate to constantly battle scurvy. I do not eat enough broccoli obviously, as I have explained before here. So it is with a heavy heart that I must realize what my eventual fate will be. I am destined to battle with scurvy my entire life. Yes, tragic, but true.
I will not always be so lucky as to be within reach of a cure, however. So, I am doomed to be the madman on the loose grasping at anything that even looks like a cure.
Mad with the scurvy I will scuttle down the street. Nobody sitting at a quiet breakfast with grapefruit will be safe from my ravenous need for citrus. I will be forced to grab lemony desserts from people's hands and down them without elegance or dignity. Scorbutic hands trembling I am doomed to terrify the lone bearers of fruit flavoured cakes on public transportation.
With wild and anxious aspect I will spy the cakes from a distance, perched prettily on the lap of an unsuspecting bus passenger. My desperate deficiency heightening my senses and screaming that I act now to restore my health, I will leap to my feet and race to my supposed salvation. Muttering in demented demeanor aloud to myself about the scurvy I will pitch back and forth with the motion of the bus. The scurvy will feel the motion, reach back into its ancient memory and believe with renewed audacity that it is afflicting a hapless sailor, demanding satisfaction in a fruit flavoured cake sacrifice to its honour.
I will battle with the scurvy. I am a good person and won't want to take the poor passenger's cake. But the scurvy will be strong and I will eventually be forced to steal their cake. Unceremoniously, I will be found tearing into it to relieve my scurvy and become the world's weirdest and wildest mugger. Stealing cakes from innocent people. Once the scurvy has been sated and my sanity has returned to me it will be too late. I will try to explain that the scurvy made me do it as I am led away in handcuffs for mugging some poor old lady bringing a lemon cake to her friends birthday. But it will be too late she will already be terrified and traumatized by my public scorbutic debacle.
I am doomed. Summer days may find me trying to pry orange popsicles from unsuspecting little fingers. Fingers that will point me out as the orange-handed culprit. Sure, sure I could have asked where they got their popsicles from, but scurvy doesn't heed logic. Scurvy does not brook disappointment. Scurvy is a law unto itself. It is a bleak bleak future that awaits me.
Even if I try to stockpile on citrus products there is no telling when scurvy could strike. I could be anywhere and nobody will be safe from my scorbutic mania. Maybe I should get a lawyer. Perhaps a good lawyer could explain that these innocent victims had knowledge of the whereabouts of the popsicle and cake vendors and that they were withholding that information from me. I was forced to steal the popsicles and cakes out of great underprivileged need.
Or insanity. The insanity plea could work. The terrified lady from the bus could probably testify on my behalf even. Insanity may just be my salvation.
I can tell you are confused. That furrowed look on your brow, that raised eyebrow, that slightly narrowed eye tell all. You cannot understand what I am talking about. Well how could you? YOU do not have scurvy.
At first I just thought I was tired from working too hard and maybe the tiniest bit lazy. But then I realized the terrible truth. I was in line to buy my handful of bargains at M&S when realization struck. Out of all the things I could have selected to buy I had chosen to buy a lemon cake, a lemon mousse and a grapefruit. I wasn't just tired and lazy. I was craving fruit. I had scurvy! The hard yellow evidence was staring me straight in my scorbutic face.
 |
| Maybe the presence of this pirate cake alongside my lemon cake subconsciously started this whole thing? Nah, it was the scurvy. Had to be. |
Ok, produce wallet, produce change, pay for citrusy products. Almost safe. No, the madness is taking over. The scurvy... It. Is. Too. Powerful.
I stumbled back to my desk at work, delirious with laughter and the sickness. I managed to obtain a spoon somehow in this state, peeled back the lid with trembling fingers and dug into the lemony mousse. Ahhh. The cure. I could feel the sugary lemony goodness fixing me. The madness slowly receded to a normal level and I went back to my work. I had been saved from the scurvy, but not before I had realized my fate.
You see, it seems to be my fate to constantly battle scurvy. I do not eat enough broccoli obviously, as I have explained before here. So it is with a heavy heart that I must realize what my eventual fate will be. I am destined to battle with scurvy my entire life. Yes, tragic, but true.
I will not always be so lucky as to be within reach of a cure, however. So, I am doomed to be the madman on the loose grasping at anything that even looks like a cure.
Mad with the scurvy I will scuttle down the street. Nobody sitting at a quiet breakfast with grapefruit will be safe from my ravenous need for citrus. I will be forced to grab lemony desserts from people's hands and down them without elegance or dignity. Scorbutic hands trembling I am doomed to terrify the lone bearers of fruit flavoured cakes on public transportation.
With wild and anxious aspect I will spy the cakes from a distance, perched prettily on the lap of an unsuspecting bus passenger. My desperate deficiency heightening my senses and screaming that I act now to restore my health, I will leap to my feet and race to my supposed salvation. Muttering in demented demeanor aloud to myself about the scurvy I will pitch back and forth with the motion of the bus. The scurvy will feel the motion, reach back into its ancient memory and believe with renewed audacity that it is afflicting a hapless sailor, demanding satisfaction in a fruit flavoured cake sacrifice to its honour.
I will battle with the scurvy. I am a good person and won't want to take the poor passenger's cake. But the scurvy will be strong and I will eventually be forced to steal their cake. Unceremoniously, I will be found tearing into it to relieve my scurvy and become the world's weirdest and wildest mugger. Stealing cakes from innocent people. Once the scurvy has been sated and my sanity has returned to me it will be too late. I will try to explain that the scurvy made me do it as I am led away in handcuffs for mugging some poor old lady bringing a lemon cake to her friends birthday. But it will be too late she will already be terrified and traumatized by my public scorbutic debacle.
I am doomed. Summer days may find me trying to pry orange popsicles from unsuspecting little fingers. Fingers that will point me out as the orange-handed culprit. Sure, sure I could have asked where they got their popsicles from, but scurvy doesn't heed logic. Scurvy does not brook disappointment. Scurvy is a law unto itself. It is a bleak bleak future that awaits me.
Even if I try to stockpile on citrus products there is no telling when scurvy could strike. I could be anywhere and nobody will be safe from my scorbutic mania. Maybe I should get a lawyer. Perhaps a good lawyer could explain that these innocent victims had knowledge of the whereabouts of the popsicle and cake vendors and that they were withholding that information from me. I was forced to steal the popsicles and cakes out of great underprivileged need.
Or insanity. The insanity plea could work. The terrified lady from the bus could probably testify on my behalf even. Insanity may just be my salvation.
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