I have now wasted one day's holiday and inconvenienced myself hugely by spending a day working from home in the name of getting my washing machine fixed.
My washing machine still doesn't work.
Moral: Indesit? In-the-shit, more like. Actually, that's not really a moral, is it? It doesn't even make sense. It's just an excuse to incorporate the name of a manufacturer of washing machines and a swearword to indicate how annoyed I am. The saga has now claimed my ability to use words. Thank goodness I don't work for a publishi... oh, drat.
This, combined with the prospect of having to haul 300 sheets of A3 paper through the rush hour tomorrow morning, has left me in such a mood that the entry I've been planning for myself, which I'm pleased with already and haven't even started on yet (which almost certainly means it's going to be an anti-climax and remain unposted forever, like that Airhead one I occasionally mentioned in the early days of the page-o-thing and was reminded of when I was compiling Rob Curling's Best of The Adventures of Flossie, and Rob Curling's Best of The Adventures of Flossie) will have to remain unwritten for a few days yet. At least.
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Friday, March 03, 2006
My first day off since returning to the world of Proper Employment. I should like to tell you that there is an exciting reason for this, but there isn't; it's because, after spending Wednesday evening splashing around the kitchen, this was the only day that anyone would come to fix my washing machine this side of April (approx.). Or, rather, look at my washing machine and work out how many parts would be needed to make it work again.
In the meantime, my mum has volunteered use of her washing machine to save me from having to visit a launderette for the first time since, oooh, about 1995 or so. And while this is a good thing - I could have got away with a week without a washing machine if I was still working from home, but hygiene is much more of an issue in a badly air-conditioned office with people you still don't know particularly well - there is one problem in having my mum handle my dirty laundry. I am, after all, a single gentleman who lives on his own. And - how do I put this? - there are certain things that single gentlemen who live on their own do, particularly in the springtime when the single gentleman's thoughts turn to... well, you know.
(Fans of the mid-90s and irony will be delighted to learn that one of the discs in the pile of CD singles I've been entertaining myself with is Tiny Meat by Ruby, which I haven't heard for ages and which I'm alarmed to note came out in 1995. I probably listened to it while I was sat around in the launderette. I knew how to live when I was a student.)
So I've had to carefully sift the washing to ensure that anything too embarrassingly sullied doesn't make it into the bag that I'll be sending over to her. The sheets I took off the bed last weekend certainly aren't going in. Most of the pairs of sturdy boxer shorts that I wear are in dark colours, which is potentially bad, but the good thing about going to work is that you're otherwise occupied all day and too busy being tired and having things to do when you get home, so the situation isn't nearly as bad as it could have been; the sift-and-sniff I've just undertaken reveals only two pairs that I wouldn't want someone else handling, and even then that's more of a precautionary measure than because of certain humiliation. Phew.
In the meantime, my mum has volunteered use of her washing machine to save me from having to visit a launderette for the first time since, oooh, about 1995 or so. And while this is a good thing - I could have got away with a week without a washing machine if I was still working from home, but hygiene is much more of an issue in a badly air-conditioned office with people you still don't know particularly well - there is one problem in having my mum handle my dirty laundry. I am, after all, a single gentleman who lives on his own. And - how do I put this? - there are certain things that single gentlemen who live on their own do, particularly in the springtime when the single gentleman's thoughts turn to... well, you know.
(Fans of the mid-90s and irony will be delighted to learn that one of the discs in the pile of CD singles I've been entertaining myself with is Tiny Meat by Ruby, which I haven't heard for ages and which I'm alarmed to note came out in 1995. I probably listened to it while I was sat around in the launderette. I knew how to live when I was a student.)
So I've had to carefully sift the washing to ensure that anything too embarrassingly sullied doesn't make it into the bag that I'll be sending over to her. The sheets I took off the bed last weekend certainly aren't going in. Most of the pairs of sturdy boxer shorts that I wear are in dark colours, which is potentially bad, but the good thing about going to work is that you're otherwise occupied all day and too busy being tired and having things to do when you get home, so the situation isn't nearly as bad as it could have been; the sift-and-sniff I've just undertaken reveals only two pairs that I wouldn't want someone else handling, and even then that's more of a precautionary measure than because of certain humiliation. Phew.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Today, readers, is a red letter day. For today is the day when the number of people who found the page looking for "Flossie" finally outstripped the number of people who found it looking for ("Johnny Noakes" - Ed). It seems unlikely that they were actually looking for me, as the page's readership remains stubbornly at "maybe 12", but I feel quite gratified anyway. Even if it has taken about two years.
By coincidence, this is also the page-o-thing's 600th post. I was going to mark this with some extended self-indulgent nonsense, but having spent ages working on it and then reading it back I'm not sure that the tone of mockery that I'd intended has really come out, and that it might have become the page that celebrates only itself. I shall pause and rethink the matter, and see if I can come up with some jokes, and you can insert your own punchline to that one.
By coincidence, this is also the page-o-thing's 600th post. I was going to mark this with some extended self-indulgent nonsense, but having spent ages working on it and then reading it back I'm not sure that the tone of mockery that I'd intended has really come out, and that it might have become the page that celebrates only itself. I shall pause and rethink the matter, and see if I can come up with some jokes, and you can insert your own punchline to that one.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
My train into work ground to a halt midway between stations. The driver told us that he didn't know why the train was being held up, and as he did you could hear his radio ringing in the background. I wasn't bothered; I've spent so much time this week either sitting on trains or standing on trains or sitting on trains and then standing up to let someone have my seat or standing on platforms waiting for trains to turn up that I've become quite relaxed about the whole business. At least this time the driver was telling us what was going on; usually they're only too keen to tell us where the train is stopping, where the safety notices are, thanking us for traveling with them (as if we had much of an option), only to clam up when something goes wrong.
Besides, it was going to allow me to get through all of McIntyre, Treadmore and Davitt. I even began to plan which bits of the HMHB catalogue I was going to follow it up with.
It transpired that a train in front had failed, and that we were to be diverted around it. The train in question was parked a matter of yards away from the platform at Maryland, and it looked busy. I suspected that left any longer it would turn into that The Day Today sketch, and fully expected it to still be there when I returned in the evening. Unfortunately I'd completely forgotten about it by then, and besides was on the opposite side of the train and so wouldn't have been able to see it, and anyway a woman who smelt fantastic had sat next to me and I was too busy being preoccupied about that to notice. I reckon they probably moved it though. It would have been on the news and that.
Besides, it was going to allow me to get through all of McIntyre, Treadmore and Davitt. I even began to plan which bits of the HMHB catalogue I was going to follow it up with.
It transpired that a train in front had failed, and that we were to be diverted around it. The train in question was parked a matter of yards away from the platform at Maryland, and it looked busy. I suspected that left any longer it would turn into that The Day Today sketch, and fully expected it to still be there when I returned in the evening. Unfortunately I'd completely forgotten about it by then, and besides was on the opposite side of the train and so wouldn't have been able to see it, and anyway a woman who smelt fantastic had sat next to me and I was too busy being preoccupied about that to notice. I reckon they probably moved it though. It would have been on the news and that.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
As we've discussed before (and, let's be honest, after 597 entries there are very few topics that we haven't discussed before, the maybe 12 of you and I, whether they were worth discussing or not), I find the leaving card to be a particularly novel form of torture. How to condense your relationship with someone you've worked with for however long into a pithy aside? Particularly if you actually like them? It's a nightmare in tacky cardboard-y paper form.
However, trying to write a message on a leaving card for someone who has given you a job only to announce that they're leaving within less than a month of you starting that job is a new form of awkwardness beyond anything I have previously experienced. Ordinarily writing a leaving card for someone you've only worked with for a few weeks would be, comparatively speaking, a doddle - just a quick "best wishes for the future"-type message that you can tailor according to the circumstances of their departure. But when they've actually given you the job, it feels like you're supposed to write more. Are you still supposed to be grateful for them employing you in the first place? Will a wry aside about how long you've been working for them be taken the wrong way? Particularly when you're one of the first to sign, and you know practically everyone else within the department will get to read it, and that it's bad enough that they're going to see your awful handwriting as well.
(It should be pointed out that since I've joined the company, two of the three people who interviewed me have announced their departures. I've tried not to take this personally - the key word is tried - but I can't help feeling like a rat boarding a sinking ship. Moral: don't ever get a job.)
However, trying to write a message on a leaving card for someone who has given you a job only to announce that they're leaving within less than a month of you starting that job is a new form of awkwardness beyond anything I have previously experienced. Ordinarily writing a leaving card for someone you've only worked with for a few weeks would be, comparatively speaking, a doddle - just a quick "best wishes for the future"-type message that you can tailor according to the circumstances of their departure. But when they've actually given you the job, it feels like you're supposed to write more. Are you still supposed to be grateful for them employing you in the first place? Will a wry aside about how long you've been working for them be taken the wrong way? Particularly when you're one of the first to sign, and you know practically everyone else within the department will get to read it, and that it's bad enough that they're going to see your awful handwriting as well.
(It should be pointed out that since I've joined the company, two of the three people who interviewed me have announced their departures. I've tried not to take this personally - the key word is tried - but I can't help feeling like a rat boarding a sinking ship. Moral: don't ever get a job.)
Sunday, February 19, 2006
My nephew asked me what I want to be when I grow up. (He wants to be a racing driver. Unfortunately his version of what driving racing cars involves has been affected by computer games, and involves the use of brightly coloured shells, speed-up mushrooms and your opponents being a toadstool, an ape and a giant fire-breathing monster. Note to Bernie Ecclestone: this would improve things no end.) I decided that when I grow up I'm going to be a failure. Aim high, that's my motto.
Apparently, the downside to being a racing driver is that "the girls all wiggle their butts at you". Publishing is very similar. The girls do wiggle their butts at you. In a way. Sort of. All right, the girls walk down the corridor and if you're walking along behind them you can look at their bottom if nobody's coming the other way who might see you doing it. Practically no difference, really.
More worryingly, my sister has been looking at my Friends Reunited profile, which I'd updated a few months ago on my biannual visit to the aforementioned site and completely forgotten about on the grounds that, well, nobody looks at these things. Oddly, she picked up on the bit about meeting someone I went to school with outside Tesco rather than the bit about talking to girls 10 years younger than me at Sleater-Kinney gigs, which is the sort of detail you'd expect your sister to be more interested in. I'm going to have to be a lot more careful about this sort of thing in future.
Apparently, the downside to being a racing driver is that "the girls all wiggle their butts at you". Publishing is very similar. The girls do wiggle their butts at you. In a way. Sort of. All right, the girls walk down the corridor and if you're walking along behind them you can look at their bottom if nobody's coming the other way who might see you doing it. Practically no difference, really.
More worryingly, my sister has been looking at my Friends Reunited profile, which I'd updated a few months ago on my biannual visit to the aforementioned site and completely forgotten about on the grounds that, well, nobody looks at these things. Oddly, she picked up on the bit about meeting someone I went to school with outside Tesco rather than the bit about talking to girls 10 years younger than me at Sleater-Kinney gigs, which is the sort of detail you'd expect your sister to be more interested in. I'm going to have to be a lot more careful about this sort of thing in future.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
As I stood, squeezed into the corner of the train, surrounded by a half-term family who found the whole situation amusing, possibly because they hadn't been delayed en route because the tube in front of their's had had problems with its doors and then deprived of a seat at Stratford because some weasel of a man had taken advantage of their kindly letting of the fellow with the fold-up bike to take the first free seat to dive past and sit in the remaining seat, I had a moment of horrible realisation.
I've only gone and become a commuter. Not even four weeks and I've become everything I despise. Fucking hell.
(Well, all right, maybe not everything. I haven't become the sort of person who dives under the arm of a 5ft 7-and-a-half man to get to a seat while he generously lets the fellow with the fold-up bike through. The way he dived under me, I suspect that if I'd had my legs open a little wider he would have crawled through them to get to the seat. Granted, I wanted to sit down, but I wasn't that desperate.)
(Nor have I become the sort of person who stops at the foot of the stairs on the way out of the station to light a cigarette, thus holding up a lot of disgruntled commuters who really want to go home, and then blows back smoke at them all of the way up the stairs and out of the station. That's the good thing about smokers: you begin to have a moment's sympathy for them, and then suddenly something makes you remember how incredibly selfish they all are. Even the ones who try to be sympathetic, who tell you that they do their best not to blow their smoke on people if they can help it - they don't seem to realise that they can avoid blowing smoke at people by not fucking well doing it in the first place. And if I hear one more of them whinging about their civil liberties, I'm going to fucking well boot them in the genitals and then when they whinge about it I'm going to point out that they're depriving me of the fun of going around booting people in the genitals, which I like doing and helps me relax.)
(On the other hand, I have now posted a vaguely topical rant about a subject of the day, containing almost certainly ill-thought opinions, on my "blog". So I really have become most of the things I despise, then. This very probably is nearly the end, isn't it? Hey ho.)
I've only gone and become a commuter. Not even four weeks and I've become everything I despise. Fucking hell.
(Well, all right, maybe not everything. I haven't become the sort of person who dives under the arm of a 5ft 7-and-a-half man to get to a seat while he generously lets the fellow with the fold-up bike through. The way he dived under me, I suspect that if I'd had my legs open a little wider he would have crawled through them to get to the seat. Granted, I wanted to sit down, but I wasn't that desperate.)
(Nor have I become the sort of person who stops at the foot of the stairs on the way out of the station to light a cigarette, thus holding up a lot of disgruntled commuters who really want to go home, and then blows back smoke at them all of the way up the stairs and out of the station. That's the good thing about smokers: you begin to have a moment's sympathy for them, and then suddenly something makes you remember how incredibly selfish they all are. Even the ones who try to be sympathetic, who tell you that they do their best not to blow their smoke on people if they can help it - they don't seem to realise that they can avoid blowing smoke at people by not fucking well doing it in the first place. And if I hear one more of them whinging about their civil liberties, I'm going to fucking well boot them in the genitals and then when they whinge about it I'm going to point out that they're depriving me of the fun of going around booting people in the genitals, which I like doing and helps me relax.)
(On the other hand, I have now posted a vaguely topical rant about a subject of the day, containing almost certainly ill-thought opinions, on my "blog". So I really have become most of the things I despise, then. This very probably is nearly the end, isn't it? Hey ho.)
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