I awoke with a start in the night, a millisecond before the power went out. I just had time to think 'Whaaa..?" then
*BANG CRASH RUMBLE*
Holy mother of God, either a juggernaut has crashed into downstairs or there's one hell of a storm going on, I thought in the darkness, my heart beating a little faster than it usually is at 2am.
I got up to find the torch (no easy business in the pitch black with no contacts in). (Note to self, having a torch that isn't quite where you think it is, is a million miles away from having a torch that is definitely where you think it is). And thinking about it, it would have made bugger all difference if I had had contacts in. But I digress...
Then lightning almost blinded me. It was like Hollywood lightning - everything flashed up bright white, brighter than I can ever remember seeing it before. Then...
*BANG CRASH RUMBLE GGRRRRR RUUUUUUUMBLE*
Think Thor in a really bad mood, beating a gong the size of France. Then belching the belch of a thousand years. Magnificent!
I took in several rounds of this by candlelight (still hadn't found the torch). It took about 10 minutes for the storm to sound slightly further away (i.e. not directly above the cottage or about to knock on the door and invite itself in.) Then the fridge buzzed back on again. I blew out the candle and went back to bed, having rather enjoyed the entertainment.
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
Back to business, and straight back home again
So I drove to a client meeting yesterday. Yes, it was a long way away, but then again I choose to live a long way away from most places. I like it.
It was at a business park, close to a motorway junction... much like many others I've been to. You get there a bit early, spend almost as long as it took to get there looking for somewhere to park, then try and identify which of the many identical buildings you're supposed to be in.
Once you find it, you tell the person on reception who you're meeting, fill in an ID pass, then wait for around half an hour or so past the appointed meeting time, until someone comes to meet you with apologies of 'It's just sooooo hectic'. (Fortunately, the time was easily spent in small talk with another freelancer there for the same meeting, and our ushers - or suits - from the agency we're working for.)
Then you're paraded through an interminable rat's maze of floors and 'open plan' cubicles that each contain a grey-looking human, typing away at something. 'Phew,' you think, 'Rather them than I.' (I've done it, I toiled in the bowels of the IBM building on the Southbank for almost two years, then another 6 months in a business park around the back of Terminal 4 at Heathrow. Then close on 3 years for an Internet startup, then about another 10 years for various agencies - although they tend to have much nicer work environments, if not hours.)
After being ushered into a small room crammed with chairs, someone offers you coffee while someone else is still trying to connect a projector to a laptop. This goes on for a bit.
But now...
Coffee arrived, we opened our notepads and sat expectantly. The meeting host grabbed the nearby Star Trek phone to dial into a conference call with someone who was too busy to be there in person. The other freelancer helpfully pointed out the cable from the laptop was plugged into the wrong socket on the projector. And a presentation appeared on the screen.
"Oh, I don't have the presentation in front of me, just tell me what you see and I'll dig around in my memory banks..." said our invisible phone guest. Our shoulders sagged a little, including those of our host.
About an hour later, we'd got through about 20 relevant slides, and about 40 irrelevant ones. He dialled off, and in through the door burst our next Product Manager. She was actually good. Told us what we needed to know, didn't tell us what we didn't need to know, even cracked a few jokes. I think she even said 'bugger' at one point. Then she raced off for another meeting...
At this point, one of the suits said in a cracked voice, 'Um, could I have some water please?" (Two hours in a hot stuffy room can make you do crazy things like this). Water was duly administered, in thumble-sized plastic cups.
Our next presenter was wheeled in, clutching a piece of paper. "Um... I haven't received a presentation or anything,' said our host. 'Oh," he said ala quelle surprise, 'That'll probably be because I wasn't asked to give one, I just thought I'd be here answering questions."
He was duly shuffled off to find a presentation, then came back and spent the next hour and a half explaining, in the most miniscule detail, things human beings shouldn't ever need to know about technology.
We'd over-run by about half an hour at this point. Every time he took a breath, we all began to (tactfully) put caps on pens, and shuffle our papers. Then he'd start again. I saw the two suits looking at their watches, and mumbling things about the creative director having waited in reception for a while by now (us freelancers were due to escape - they, poor souls, had another 2-hour meeting lined up after this one).
Eventually our host brightly suggested that - although they needed to move on to the next meeting, why didn't I (and t'other freelancer) make use of this gentleman's time by staying on and asking any more questions we had? In my most polite manner - and I hope without sounding at all desperate - I suggested that he'd been so thorough, I simply didn't have any more questions. The other freelance very eagerly agreed.
So we made our escape... escorted back through the cubicles of grey things tapping away (we'd never have found the way out unaided). And fled into the dark, rainy evening. I greeted the Maxi like the old comfortable friend it is and then spent another two hours driving home.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not dissing the people that work in places like that. It just makes me appreciate how lucky I am that I can (mostly) do my job in a cosy cottage by the fire. (Or even on the most foul afternoon... under a blankie on the sofa.) I like to think I've paid my dues (I've done late nights, early mornings, 20-hour shifts, calling people back into work at 9am on a Saturday after I've made them stay there until midnight the night before, and in one case watching an entire summer go by through the office windows).
And yes, I earn less money now. But I wouldn't swap it for anything.
It was at a business park, close to a motorway junction... much like many others I've been to. You get there a bit early, spend almost as long as it took to get there looking for somewhere to park, then try and identify which of the many identical buildings you're supposed to be in.
Once you find it, you tell the person on reception who you're meeting, fill in an ID pass, then wait for around half an hour or so past the appointed meeting time, until someone comes to meet you with apologies of 'It's just sooooo hectic'. (Fortunately, the time was easily spent in small talk with another freelancer there for the same meeting, and our ushers - or suits - from the agency we're working for.)
Then you're paraded through an interminable rat's maze of floors and 'open plan' cubicles that each contain a grey-looking human, typing away at something. 'Phew,' you think, 'Rather them than I.' (I've done it, I toiled in the bowels of the IBM building on the Southbank for almost two years, then another 6 months in a business park around the back of Terminal 4 at Heathrow. Then close on 3 years for an Internet startup, then about another 10 years for various agencies - although they tend to have much nicer work environments, if not hours.)
After being ushered into a small room crammed with chairs, someone offers you coffee while someone else is still trying to connect a projector to a laptop. This goes on for a bit.
But now...
Coffee arrived, we opened our notepads and sat expectantly. The meeting host grabbed the nearby Star Trek phone to dial into a conference call with someone who was too busy to be there in person. The other freelancer helpfully pointed out the cable from the laptop was plugged into the wrong socket on the projector. And a presentation appeared on the screen.
"Oh, I don't have the presentation in front of me, just tell me what you see and I'll dig around in my memory banks..." said our invisible phone guest. Our shoulders sagged a little, including those of our host.
About an hour later, we'd got through about 20 relevant slides, and about 40 irrelevant ones. He dialled off, and in through the door burst our next Product Manager. She was actually good. Told us what we needed to know, didn't tell us what we didn't need to know, even cracked a few jokes. I think she even said 'bugger' at one point. Then she raced off for another meeting...
At this point, one of the suits said in a cracked voice, 'Um, could I have some water please?" (Two hours in a hot stuffy room can make you do crazy things like this). Water was duly administered, in thumble-sized plastic cups.
Our next presenter was wheeled in, clutching a piece of paper. "Um... I haven't received a presentation or anything,' said our host. 'Oh," he said ala quelle surprise, 'That'll probably be because I wasn't asked to give one, I just thought I'd be here answering questions."
He was duly shuffled off to find a presentation, then came back and spent the next hour and a half explaining, in the most miniscule detail, things human beings shouldn't ever need to know about technology.
We'd over-run by about half an hour at this point. Every time he took a breath, we all began to (tactfully) put caps on pens, and shuffle our papers. Then he'd start again. I saw the two suits looking at their watches, and mumbling things about the creative director having waited in reception for a while by now (us freelancers were due to escape - they, poor souls, had another 2-hour meeting lined up after this one).
Eventually our host brightly suggested that - although they needed to move on to the next meeting, why didn't I (and t'other freelancer) make use of this gentleman's time by staying on and asking any more questions we had? In my most polite manner - and I hope without sounding at all desperate - I suggested that he'd been so thorough, I simply didn't have any more questions. The other freelance very eagerly agreed.
So we made our escape... escorted back through the cubicles of grey things tapping away (we'd never have found the way out unaided). And fled into the dark, rainy evening. I greeted the Maxi like the old comfortable friend it is and then spent another two hours driving home.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not dissing the people that work in places like that. It just makes me appreciate how lucky I am that I can (mostly) do my job in a cosy cottage by the fire. (Or even on the most foul afternoon... under a blankie on the sofa.) I like to think I've paid my dues (I've done late nights, early mornings, 20-hour shifts, calling people back into work at 9am on a Saturday after I've made them stay there until midnight the night before, and in one case watching an entire summer go by through the office windows).
And yes, I earn less money now. But I wouldn't swap it for anything.
Monday, 23 November 2009
Homework
I have recently been asked to work on what could a huge copy project over the next few months. This is good, not only in that my coffers are now running low, but also because apart from a few meetings in that there London, I can do most of the work from home. In front of the fire. And then send it off by email. This was all part of the Big Plan and I'm very happy it's coming together.
However the downside is that they seem to think I'm on tap around the clock. On a couple of evenings last week, I was emailed copy amends late in the day, with a plaintive request to turn them around for first thing the next morning - and in one case by later on that evening.
This isn't a habit I want to fall into, especially as the latter meant I had to cancel a trip to see my brother. But so far the pros and cons seem to jostle fairly well together, even if it meant I felt like a bad sister. But hey, at least I'll be able to afford to buy him a Christmas present...
However the downside is that they seem to think I'm on tap around the clock. On a couple of evenings last week, I was emailed copy amends late in the day, with a plaintive request to turn them around for first thing the next morning - and in one case by later on that evening.
This isn't a habit I want to fall into, especially as the latter meant I had to cancel a trip to see my brother. But so far the pros and cons seem to jostle fairly well together, even if it meant I felt like a bad sister. But hey, at least I'll be able to afford to buy him a Christmas present...
No offence, Part III
After a few days' respite, G returned to crack on with what's now known as 'That Bastard Fence'. The previous evening, I'd picked up a pickaxe and sledgehammer from lovely Lorraine's house in Brighton, one of the few items we left after previously ransacking her house for furniture. Lorraine also insisted on feeding me while I was there, despite having a tough day at a conference. She is one of life's wholeheartedly generous people.
So back to TBF... I'd dug a baby, kind of 'my first trench' wobbly ditch in the ground the previous day by way of trying to help. So G put the tools to use in the chilly garden while I worked very hard writing copy by the fire inside the cottage. Now this may sound like skiving but I can assure you it was simply a fair division of labour.
And the posts finally started going into the ground. The unending rain of the previous few days helped no-end on the... um... final couple of posts that weren't underscored by beelzebub's play-doh or whatever it is down there.
After shooting off to buy some slightly larger tacks, the majority of the wire was attached to said posts. And blow me down, I had a fence! We tested the fenced area by putting G's companion in it (Lochi, a lively and lovely German Pointer). After snuffling about a bit, he looking at the shut gate and started whining piteously. At that point we knew it was dog proof. Hurrah! Victory!
All that's left for me to do now is finish off the tacking and a bit of digging to stop anything unwanted burrowing in (likewise anything wanted burrowing out). Fed and watered G with spag bol and red wine by way of much appreciated thanks.
So back to TBF... I'd dug a baby, kind of 'my first trench' wobbly ditch in the ground the previous day by way of trying to help. So G put the tools to use in the chilly garden while I worked very hard writing copy by the fire inside the cottage. Now this may sound like skiving but I can assure you it was simply a fair division of labour.
And the posts finally started going into the ground. The unending rain of the previous few days helped no-end on the... um... final couple of posts that weren't underscored by beelzebub's play-doh or whatever it is down there.
After shooting off to buy some slightly larger tacks, the majority of the wire was attached to said posts. And blow me down, I had a fence! We tested the fenced area by putting G's companion in it (Lochi, a lively and lovely German Pointer). After snuffling about a bit, he looking at the shut gate and started whining piteously. At that point we knew it was dog proof. Hurrah! Victory!
All that's left for me to do now is finish off the tacking and a bit of digging to stop anything unwanted burrowing in (likewise anything wanted burrowing out). Fed and watered G with spag bol and red wine by way of much appreciated thanks.
Friday, 20 November 2009
Logging on
I've never ordered logs before - but bearing in mind the cottage has no central heating, it was time to buy some warm for the winter.
Where does one start? Well, with googling local suppliers and focusing on those that seem to be reasonably priced, and who offer free local delivery.
I blithely placed an order for a 'full-load'. Then ran out of the logs that had been kindly left in the shed, and bought a small mesh-bag from a garage. The woodburner didn't like these logs. Too big. Too damp.
This was on a Friday, and my log order was due on the Monday.
So first thing on Monday morning, I called my logman (as I can now refer to him) to ask about the size of the logs, and explained that the big ones didn't seem to burn too well. In London, this would have probably been met with a 'you get what you ordered' mentality. In this case, he asked about the woodburner, the size of the logs I wanted, if I'd ever bought logs before, and if I was sure I wanted 'a full-load' in case I couldn't store it all properly. And did I want them stacked?
I opted for a half-load (non-stacked) instead of the full-load, to see how I got on. And while this effectively halved the value of the order, means he is now my logman of choice, for as long as I'm requiring logs. (Customer loyalty, see? Give good service and you get it).
He deposited all the logs in a big loggy pile next to the Maxi a few hours later. Which I then moved, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow, into a pile inside the woodshed.
*Fill with logs, doooooown the steep bit, across the back of the cottage, uuuuuuup the less steep bit, across the lawn. Shed. Empty. Stack. Dooooown the less steep bit, across the back of the cottage, back uuuuuuuup the steep bit, fill with logs*
Darkness fell. Logs still remained by the Maxi. I continued on my wheelbarrow mission. Until the last log was, well if not in the shed (that ran out of room, thank heavens he suggested a half-load), but safely under cover.
I returned to the cottage and sat down. The heavens then opened. I sat smugly by my now roaring fire. "My logs are in, my logs are in, my logs are not getting wet." I thought. Then 15 minutes later I remembered I'd left all the washing on the line.
Where does one start? Well, with googling local suppliers and focusing on those that seem to be reasonably priced, and who offer free local delivery.
I blithely placed an order for a 'full-load'. Then ran out of the logs that had been kindly left in the shed, and bought a small mesh-bag from a garage. The woodburner didn't like these logs. Too big. Too damp.
This was on a Friday, and my log order was due on the Monday.
So first thing on Monday morning, I called my logman (as I can now refer to him) to ask about the size of the logs, and explained that the big ones didn't seem to burn too well. In London, this would have probably been met with a 'you get what you ordered' mentality. In this case, he asked about the woodburner, the size of the logs I wanted, if I'd ever bought logs before, and if I was sure I wanted 'a full-load' in case I couldn't store it all properly. And did I want them stacked?
I opted for a half-load (non-stacked) instead of the full-load, to see how I got on. And while this effectively halved the value of the order, means he is now my logman of choice, for as long as I'm requiring logs. (Customer loyalty, see? Give good service and you get it).
He deposited all the logs in a big loggy pile next to the Maxi a few hours later. Which I then moved, wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow, into a pile inside the woodshed.
*Fill with logs, doooooown the steep bit, across the back of the cottage, uuuuuuup the less steep bit, across the lawn. Shed. Empty. Stack. Dooooown the less steep bit, across the back of the cottage, back uuuuuuuup the steep bit, fill with logs*
Darkness fell. Logs still remained by the Maxi. I continued on my wheelbarrow mission. Until the last log was, well if not in the shed (that ran out of room, thank heavens he suggested a half-load), but safely under cover.
I returned to the cottage and sat down. The heavens then opened. I sat smugly by my now roaring fire. "My logs are in, my logs are in, my logs are not getting wet." I thought. Then 15 minutes later I remembered I'd left all the washing on the line.
Thursday, 19 November 2009
My kingdom for a sharpener
Spent the morning in a wild goose chase, or at least a wild axe-sharpening chase.
I had a blunt axe. And a load of logs. And no kindling.
Thought I... I will simply sharpen my axe, and chop the logs into little-itty bits.
So, I went to the Garden Store, who said "No! We don't have anything to sharpen an axe, but we think Homebase might do."
I went to Homebase. "No!" said they. "We don't have anything to sharpen an axe, but the Builder's Suppliers across the way might."
After calling G, (apparently now a polymath on all things practical or otherwise, and being instructed to bring said axe down to sharpen on his friend's grindstone), I went to the Builder's Suppliers (across the way).
"No...!" they said in a now familiar refrain. Then they sent me to the The Outdoor Shop down the road.
"No!" Said also The Outdoor Shop (down the road). "We don't have anything to sharpen an axe. Try the Hardware Shop about 3 doors down."
I tried the Hardware Shop (about 3 doors down) to be told again, "No... but there's a Timber Merchant's up the road, they have a shop and if they don't have anything, they'll know what to do."
At the Timber Merchant's (up the road), I waited amongst overalled, elderly chaps who viewed me with some suspicion.
"All I want is something to sharpen my axe please, it's just a little hatchet really," I said as I blinked and smiled. The man took me to some chisel sharpeners in the corner. "Those won't do for you, I'm afraid," he said. "You'll be wanting a grindstone."
I had a blunt axe. And a load of logs. And no kindling.
Thought I... I will simply sharpen my axe, and chop the logs into little-itty bits.
So, I went to the Garden Store, who said "No! We don't have anything to sharpen an axe, but we think Homebase might do."
I went to Homebase. "No!" said they. "We don't have anything to sharpen an axe, but the Builder's Suppliers across the way might."
After calling G, (apparently now a polymath on all things practical or otherwise, and being instructed to bring said axe down to sharpen on his friend's grindstone), I went to the Builder's Suppliers (across the way).
"No...!" they said in a now familiar refrain. Then they sent me to the The Outdoor Shop down the road.
"No!" Said also The Outdoor Shop (down the road). "We don't have anything to sharpen an axe. Try the Hardware Shop about 3 doors down."
I tried the Hardware Shop (about 3 doors down) to be told again, "No... but there's a Timber Merchant's up the road, they have a shop and if they don't have anything, they'll know what to do."
At the Timber Merchant's (up the road), I waited amongst overalled, elderly chaps who viewed me with some suspicion.
"All I want is something to sharpen my axe please, it's just a little hatchet really," I said as I blinked and smiled. The man took me to some chisel sharpeners in the corner. "Those won't do for you, I'm afraid," he said. "You'll be wanting a grindstone."
No offence, Part II
A new day dawned, sort of.
Sunday, rainy, grey. Also Remembrance Sunday.
After I lost the traditional 'wait until the first person cracks, gets up and puts the kettle on,' standoff, and G emerged from another night on the sofa, we watched a small party of people lay a wreath in the churchyard across the road, while a lone bugler played.
Strangely moving. Also moving to think that without all the pomp and ceremony, and aside from all the TV cameras, thousands of small groups of people across the UK mark those who fell to protect them, with a simple moment of silence.
After the bugler finished, and after the kettle boiled, we returned to the fence.
"I'm not working in the rain,' said G. Can't say I blamed him. I didn't want to work in the rain either. So instead, I brainwashed him with The West Wing until he fled back to his new pad in Dorset, clutching the entire series box set (minus series 7, which I was still watching), with a promise to return in a few days.
To be continued... (again)...
Sunday, rainy, grey. Also Remembrance Sunday.
After I lost the traditional 'wait until the first person cracks, gets up and puts the kettle on,' standoff, and G emerged from another night on the sofa, we watched a small party of people lay a wreath in the churchyard across the road, while a lone bugler played.
Strangely moving. Also moving to think that without all the pomp and ceremony, and aside from all the TV cameras, thousands of small groups of people across the UK mark those who fell to protect them, with a simple moment of silence.
After the bugler finished, and after the kettle boiled, we returned to the fence.
"I'm not working in the rain,' said G. Can't say I blamed him. I didn't want to work in the rain either. So instead, I brainwashed him with The West Wing until he fled back to his new pad in Dorset, clutching the entire series box set (minus series 7, which I was still watching), with a promise to return in a few days.
To be continued... (again)...
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
No offence, Part I
One of my current missions is to find myself a furry-faced companion (one that won't answer back, stops me looking like a mad lonely witch on countryside hikes, and which will curl up happily at my feet and gaze at me with adoration, etc).
This included a recent visit to an RSPCA shelter, during which I had to try not to cry. Several times. After talking to the nice people there and filling in a form, I've registered as someone who wants to rehome a dog. Coming home, I called the local RSPCA volunteer who would need to come and inspect the cottage, to make sure it was a healthy home for a dog. Fair enough.
The nice man I spoke explained the only obvious problem - why they require any fences to be 4 feet high. In his words, "Even if the dog comes from the worst home in the world, it's the only home he knows. So when he comes to you, he's in a strange place, with a strange person. And as nice as you might be, the first chance he gets, he'll try and get back to his home. And the last thing we want is for doggie to jump out onto the road and get run over."
I can't disagree with this at all.
Luckily, my landlords are doglovers too, and gave me the go ahead to improve the fencing to meet these requirements. (The fact they left me a dogbasket 'In case you want to get one' kind of helps.)
What we first thought to be a simple job of elevating the height of the gate turned into a somewhat bigger job when my landlady reminded me about the fencing around the back of the garden and garage. Definitely not 4 feet high, especially the bits that had fallen over.
So I called my (now) long suffering ex-flatmate. I believe my words were along the lines of 'Could you come and help me build a fence? It'll just be banging a few posts in, and a bit of wire, no trouble." G, bless his socks, came up the next day. We bought lots of posts, and lots of dogproof wire. Then darkness settled, so we settled down to a cosy evening catching up, thinking we'd get it all sorted the next day.
Can you spot the bit where this turns into a story? It's about now.
After removing the old fence (G's genius plan - tie it to the back of the Jeep, then hit the accelerator - worked a treat), he kept himself busy finding excuses to charge around with a chainsaw chopping offending things down. Well, anything down really. We (i.e. he) started to dig holes for the posts. (I was tasked with building a bonfire to burn evidence of the chainsaw massacre, probably to keep me out of the way more than anything else, wise plan).
*Dig, dig, clunk*
Oh bollox, hit a stone.
Move places.
*Dig, dig, clunk*
Bugger - another rock.
*Dig, dig, clunk*
Hang on a minute...
Yes, it turns out, after much more digging, that about 6 inches under the soil all around the back of the cottage garden is one huge solid lump of stone, rock, builders rubble, and possibly a subterranean motorway.
Darkness descended again. We resettled by the fire to consider the options.
To be continued...
This included a recent visit to an RSPCA shelter, during which I had to try not to cry. Several times. After talking to the nice people there and filling in a form, I've registered as someone who wants to rehome a dog. Coming home, I called the local RSPCA volunteer who would need to come and inspect the cottage, to make sure it was a healthy home for a dog. Fair enough.
The nice man I spoke explained the only obvious problem - why they require any fences to be 4 feet high. In his words, "Even if the dog comes from the worst home in the world, it's the only home he knows. So when he comes to you, he's in a strange place, with a strange person. And as nice as you might be, the first chance he gets, he'll try and get back to his home. And the last thing we want is for doggie to jump out onto the road and get run over."
I can't disagree with this at all.
Luckily, my landlords are doglovers too, and gave me the go ahead to improve the fencing to meet these requirements. (The fact they left me a dogbasket 'In case you want to get one' kind of helps.)
What we first thought to be a simple job of elevating the height of the gate turned into a somewhat bigger job when my landlady reminded me about the fencing around the back of the garden and garage. Definitely not 4 feet high, especially the bits that had fallen over.
So I called my (now) long suffering ex-flatmate. I believe my words were along the lines of 'Could you come and help me build a fence? It'll just be banging a few posts in, and a bit of wire, no trouble." G, bless his socks, came up the next day. We bought lots of posts, and lots of dogproof wire. Then darkness settled, so we settled down to a cosy evening catching up, thinking we'd get it all sorted the next day.
Can you spot the bit where this turns into a story? It's about now.
After removing the old fence (G's genius plan - tie it to the back of the Jeep, then hit the accelerator - worked a treat), he kept himself busy finding excuses to charge around with a chainsaw chopping offending things down. Well, anything down really. We (i.e. he) started to dig holes for the posts. (I was tasked with building a bonfire to burn evidence of the chainsaw massacre, probably to keep me out of the way more than anything else, wise plan).
*Dig, dig, clunk*
Oh bollox, hit a stone.
Move places.
*Dig, dig, clunk*
Bugger - another rock.
*Dig, dig, clunk*
Hang on a minute...
Yes, it turns out, after much more digging, that about 6 inches under the soil all around the back of the cottage garden is one huge solid lump of stone, rock, builders rubble, and possibly a subterranean motorway.
Darkness descended again. We resettled by the fire to consider the options.
To be continued...
JFDIY
I am now convinced that the whole reason marriage continues as an institution has nothing to do with love, religion or social structure. It exists purely as some flatpack-led conspiracy that makes most modern furniture almost impossible to construct unless there are two of you.
However, after balancing struts on a variety of objects including books and an old shoebox full of pens - and inventing a few new yoga poses, I can say with pride that having made my bed, I'm going to damn well enjoy lying in it.
However, after balancing struts on a variety of objects including books and an old shoebox full of pens - and inventing a few new yoga poses, I can say with pride that having made my bed, I'm going to damn well enjoy lying in it.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Never stop learning
I’m a big fan of The West Wing. After catching a few sporadic episodes here and there on TV over the years, I saw the entire seven series boxset on sale in HMV last January, and bought it on a whim.
I still haven’t watched the whole thing (I ground to a halt mid-series five, when the writing floundered and – ahem – Rob Lowe left).
But I’ve picked up where I left off (it gets better again during and after the Sesame Street episode, and the sixth series is currently rocking). For the most part, it is excellently written, acted, directed and cast. I love the sharp dialogue, the interplays between characters, the subplots and the bigger picture.
I also love the fact when I watch it, I feel like I’m learning something – about American politics and how it all works. I still only have a vague grasp of half of it; the Primaries? Super Tuesday? What’s that all about then? What’s the difference between Congress and the Senate? Why does the Vice President seem to work in a vacuum to the President? Why do they only have two political parties? But it makes me want to find out more – about their system and ours – which can only be a good thing.
Now I’m not daft enough to suppose that this is actually real life (I am aware it’s a TV show) – but I think it’s probably a more accurate portrayal of life in the US political strata than say, ‘Yes Minister’ ever was for ours.
But how and when will I ever use this knowledge? Probably never.
Then again, I always used to sneer at Maths as pretty pointless at school, thinking (with an sulky teenage flounce); ‘When the hell am I ever going to need that? I’m going to be a writer.’
Well, the first job I was offered after graduating with a BA Hons in Journalism was… working in a bookmakers. It was pretty grim and it's fair to say I hated it, but it paid the bills until I lurched sideways into copywriting.
Never stop learning. You never know when you’ll need it.
I still haven’t watched the whole thing (I ground to a halt mid-series five, when the writing floundered and – ahem – Rob Lowe left).
But I’ve picked up where I left off (it gets better again during and after the Sesame Street episode, and the sixth series is currently rocking). For the most part, it is excellently written, acted, directed and cast. I love the sharp dialogue, the interplays between characters, the subplots and the bigger picture.
I also love the fact when I watch it, I feel like I’m learning something – about American politics and how it all works. I still only have a vague grasp of half of it; the Primaries? Super Tuesday? What’s that all about then? What’s the difference between Congress and the Senate? Why does the Vice President seem to work in a vacuum to the President? Why do they only have two political parties? But it makes me want to find out more – about their system and ours – which can only be a good thing.
Now I’m not daft enough to suppose that this is actually real life (I am aware it’s a TV show) – but I think it’s probably a more accurate portrayal of life in the US political strata than say, ‘Yes Minister’ ever was for ours.
But how and when will I ever use this knowledge? Probably never.
Then again, I always used to sneer at Maths as pretty pointless at school, thinking (with an sulky teenage flounce); ‘When the hell am I ever going to need that? I’m going to be a writer.’
Well, the first job I was offered after graduating with a BA Hons in Journalism was… working in a bookmakers. It was pretty grim and it's fair to say I hated it, but it paid the bills until I lurched sideways into copywriting.
Never stop learning. You never know when you’ll need it.
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