People are nice

Now that sounds like a rather limp-wristed title for a blog post (and indeed one that doesn't smack of any meaty story or topic). But what the hell. I've come to the conclusion that, on the whole, when we're not trying to bomb/kill/strangle/shoot/stab each other, invade each others' countries (or indeed have altercations about boundary fences) human beings actually want to help each other. In a nice way.

My recent examples:

My neighbour helping me push my ageing and somewhat gnarly car down the hill to get it started. On a very cold morning.

The lady in a garage being incredibly helpful, after I'd accidentally filled up said car with diesel, instead of petrol. (It turns out that Tesco will get you off their forecourt - and to a nearby garage - for free. But they don't advertise this in case their forecourts are suddenly overrun with dodgy motors). Please note, this is an unrelated incident to the one above.

My Mum, and a man she kind of knows, helping me push said immobilised, full-of-diesel car out of the way of the petrol pumps.

The AA man who turned up at the Tesco garage to rescue me who a) Didn't laugh, b) Didn't take me to the nearest garage like he was supposed to, but instead took me to another garage which was c) Open on a Sunday afternoon and d) Much cheaper. Oh, and he e) Drove me to a cashpoint after remembering that they probably wouldn't take cards.

The lady who helped me push the SODDING car into a layby down the road yesterday after it wouldn't start (again). In the mud. (Unrelated to the two other car incidents above, my life is a bloody barrel of laughs, I tell you).

And all that within a mere 48 hours.

Other examples of niceness I can think of right now:

A couple of who came to my aid when I keeled over in Gatwick Airport a couple of years ago (had had a couple of crazy days working full time, plus freelance jobs on the side, plus legging back to watch my Mum get her PHD then trying to fly out to see my sister, with not much sleep and even less food along the way). I still have no idea who they were, other than one of them was a doctor, and they left me their phone number along with my passport and boarding card. And called me an ambulance.

A black cabbie in London who offered my friend Lou a free ride home on cold dark winter's night in Holloway, because he saw someone following her and wanted to make sure she'd get home all right (she didn't have any money, and he would have refused it anyway).

A now very good friend who offered me his flat when I was heartbroken and homeless a couple of years ago (after a bad breakup). I think he'd met me twice at that point. He was working abroad so his flat was empty and I badly needed somewhere to stay. He never asked for any rent either. His only reward? Well, he now gets lots of phone calls about how to build fences/fix cars/mend things I've broken. Usually a couple of times a week.

Oh, but there are many more examples. And not just in my life, but all over the place. Try this one for starters.

Take a look around you, and wallow in niceness for a change.

The world is my in-tray

So I've been toiling over a hot MacBook for a few weeks now on a project. This involves me typing away in what's now the study upstairs, with a lovely view over the churchyard.

For the most part, I write in silence. I find songs with lyrics mess with the words in my head, and so does the radio. Then it's all too easy for errant words to end up on the page, in the middle of a sentence about Ethernets or suchlike. And no good can come of that. Instrumentals and classical can be soothing, but mostly it's just silence.

Anyhow, I had to rouse myself from a transcendic copy daze yesterday and nip out to get some more toner. For some reason I looked to see where this particular cartridge had been made: Malaysia.

This triggered off an exploration of all the everyday objects within my reach. (OK, this might in part have been a copy avoidance technique, mid-way through a rather dull white paper).

But this is where they all come from:

MacBook: 'Designed in California, assembled in China'
Mouse: China
External Hard Drive: Thailand
Blank DVDs: India
Landline handset: China
Stapler: unidentified (where does it come from? WHERE?)
Blu-Tack: UK
Paperclips: UK (in fact about a mile down the road from my Mum)
Black Sharpie: USA
Yellow highlighter Sharpie: China
Black Uniball Microline pen: Japan
Yellow notebook: Cheshire, UK
Lipbalm: France
Plastic beaker: Kansas, USA

So there you have it. Or rather, there it was. Stuff from all over the world, all over my desk.

But does that make a global citizen? Or merely a glutton?

PS: Try it for yourself, it's strangely addictive.

Storms of a different kind

I headed back to London last weekend, for a now annual Thanksgiving meal, tirelessly prepared by an American friend. I hope he won't mind me talking about this on here. No names will be mentioned, and the couple of people who read this blog, who will know who I'm talking about, I know have the discretion and loyalty he deserves.

It was fun to see everyone, if a little overwhelming (hell, I'm now used to seeing an average of 3 people a week, including the postman). I brought chairs, plates and cutlery, another friend provided the flat we were eating in, another brought a selection of vegetable dishes, yet another had cooked stuffing and bought a case of champagne... you can see how this is all working.

So, the table(s) groaned under the weight of the food. I think there were 13 of us in total, a mix of old and new friends, neighbours, ex-neighbours, and ex-flatmates. The turkey met a round of applause. The chef raised a toast (and nearly made everyone cry) by thanking us for being there (surely we should have been thanking him). We sang a somewhat confused version of the Star Spangled Banner and then we feasted... We drank. We laughed. We reconnected (or at least I did). We had a spectacular afternoon and evening.

Until his girlfriend kicked off. I'm trying to explain this in terms that are not derogatory to anyone, but the whole thing now just makes me rather sad. For reasons known best to herself, she destroyed all the goodwill harboured by mostly everyone within hearing (if not striking) distance. Before being told in no uncertain terms to go home.

Now this may sound harsh, but it wasn't the first time this has happened. Last year, the very same meal, in the very same flat, followed a very similar form (although that year it was gravy that ended up all around our host's home, this year it was red wine). In fact, the kicking off has become a 'when' part of any social gathering, rather than an 'if' (neither of which should ever have to be a consideration - be it pub, party or dinner at someone's house). And none which is fair on our American friend.

The following day was filled with multiple apologetic emails and tearful phonecalls, full of self-loathing and self-hatred from the (now, ex) girlfriend. Unfortunately, it fell mostly on deaf ears as she had, so to speak, well and truly cooked her own goose. Most friends are just fed up with tolerating her behaviour. And why not? She is a major pain in the arse. Quite often.

But surely underneath this obnoxious (and it was) behaviour, lies something else? Why would someone bright, vivacious, intelligent and caring, keep destroying whatever relationships they have, which they claim matter to them more than anything else?

A couple of us (including myself) have kept communication lines open, in the hope (and with very clear requests) that she goes to see her GP. Whether she does or not is up to her. Whether she manages to salvage any of the now broken friendships is again up to her. Am I pissed off with her? Yes. Am I worried about her? Yes. Will I shrug in a couple of weeks and say 'Oh, it's OK, everyone will have forgotten by now'? No.

Let's face it, none of us is perfect. And sometimes it's not the mistakes we make that define us, but rather if (or how) we redeem ourselves that does.

But we are all responsible for our own selves, and our own behaviour.

Until then, all bets are off.

A silent start

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.

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.

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...

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.