or so somebody once said. My absence from blogging duties has been duly noted by enough people to force me back online. It is half past midnight and I'm alternating between checking the election results - I care that much I didn't quite get around to voting... - and making use of my latest distraction: online sudoku. Possibly the latest convert in the country to this dastardly game, I've sped through the 'easy' and 'medium' levels, am conquering 'hard' and fully intend mastering 'evil' before the weekend is out. I'm sure my tutor will regard this as a worthy pastime, and a valid excuse for distinct absence of essay on Monday morning.
It isn't that there has been a lack of rant-worthy subjects of late - goodness me, no. I just had a few weeks with no internet access, and the space between me and my blog grew... We quarrelled briefly on the subjects of Art, Style and Purpose, but Blog has finally submitted and agreed that it cannot control the contents I hurl toward it. I will therefore go out of my way to make this a particularly disjointed post, before settling back into more Rhythmic Ranting in the next couple of days.
Firstly, a brief query about the purpose of self-service checkouts. I have had the misfortune to use a few of these recently; shops seem to have installed them with the sole idea of aggravating their customers. The CONCEPT is marvellous - no talking to some cretinous dolled up check-out bird (me? stereotype? never) and discussing the weather, clubcards, and my ability to pack bags alone. I can sidle up to a machine that means I can have the fun of swiping barcodes and producing the Beep - but that Beep is all too often followed by an error message. 'Illegal Product In Bag, Please Remove', or similarly dramatic terms for a pint of milk. Buying loose fruit/veg is something of a nightmare, as one has to go through a selection process and in some instances bother to count the number of items. Does this really save time? And heaven forbid you make use of the 'cashback' option: the machine can't quite cope with that, so a human is dragged in from the depths of the Poultry Section or wherever they were, and wearily operates as a cashback machine for you, the heavy sighs implying you forced them away from something Really Interesting because you were Too Lazy to Queue Like Everybody Else.
God, I hate those blasted machines.
Second point. As readers should know, if they have studied each post carefully (I look forwards to the day somebody chooses 'rantingjane' as their specialised subject on MasterMind), I am a member of Linacre College, Oxford. As with all colleges, Linacre has their own library facility, complete with array of suitably slow computers that function as and when they choose with total disregard to deadlines. Connected to one is a scanner, and a couple of weeks ago a friend of mine had reason to use said scanner. Now, scanners are funny things - for some reason, they save the last image that was, well, scanned. I could well make a few snide comments there about the potential to catch a few people out scanning things they shouldn't, but I'm actually rather miffed right now. Someone has used that scanner to presumably copy print-outs of two of my photos that were posted on this blog months ago. Why anyone would print out and then copy said pictures is beyond me, but there you have it. I don't particularly want to imagine what said images are currently being used for... I appreciate that I loaded them onto my blog and therefore they have become available to the world At Large (or at least the part connected to the internet in general, and RantingJane in particular).
I'm working on the assumption that whoever it is responsible for this action is a reader of my blog. In which case: make note of the point that I'm fairly certain that a certain I.T. bod in college would be able to work out who was responsible for the action, were I to ask them. And I could make everything rather embarrassing for that somebody, were they tracked down. Just a thought...
On a considerably more positive note (from my view at least), Conservatives are currently up 50 Councillors, and Labour down 46. Awww... do people not trust Labour any more? None of those honest, upstanding citizens that are the remnants of the Front Bench? Shucks.
Friday, May 05, 2006
Monday, April 03, 2006
On Procrastination
I always like to observe in a detached sort of manner how I suddenly develop an extra ten or so interests whenever a deadline looms on the horizon. And while on the subject of deadlines, I wonder why I still bother creating 'my own deadline' because it is invariably totally flexible and it is impossible for me to stay within the boundaries.
If I've a deadline approaching, the number of trips to a supermarket in a week will quadruple - 'must find the best offers, save money' - and likewise, in a rather contrary position, my visits to the pub will increase as well. I justify not setting an alarm because otherwise I'm too tired to work effectively; it surely is better to get a Good Night's Sleep, wake up refreshed, bright eyed and bushy tailed. Never quite happens like that, because I then end up missing pretty much the entire morning (I have given up recently and decided that mornings just don't exist for anything other than a slow wake up process coupled with GMTV). By the time it gets to two in the afternoon, you've wasted so much of the day that plans are already being formulated to justify setting aside that Full Day Of Work until tomorrow. At about 9pm, assuming there is nothing watchable on television (and what is defined as Watchable becomes increasingly vague as deadlines approach), and there are no plans to pop to the pub, I manage to feel a twinge of guilt and launch into work head-on. Which means I end up being awake until about 2am with a growing feeling of panic, realising how much there is to be done and Dear God, why didn't I just do it three weeks ago. Firm plans are set in place to get up the next day and get on with it, but somehow when that alarm goes at 0730 you forget the enthusiasm of the night before, throw the stupid thing to the other side of the room, and slumber until around 11am. Oops.
You can always tell when I have a deadline because my room is close to immaculate. Books are neatly ordered, clothes folded, pens in the pen pot and not a speck of dust in sight. The justification for all this stems from the general idea that I can't work in a disordered mess and therefore the room MUST be tidy. Hmm. I'll also frequent the gym considerably more than usual - even better if I can get out on the river - with the theory being that I need to release those endorphins tucked away somewhere and then gain enthusiasm out of nowhere for my work.
Although maybe that is an inaccurate description... I am enthusiastic, I am genuinely interested. (So interested I've read every single book in the library, relevant and otherwise, remotely linked to my subject - one can never do enough research, right?). I object to having to form my ideas into a ten thousand word extravaganza that will be scrutinized and analysed and subjected to the glares of superiors making derisory comments. It doesn't actually take that long when I get going, am fortunately a ludicrously fast typist and I never start writing until I know exactly what is going in that essay, its just the thought of crouching over a computer for ten hours or so that really puts me off. Suddenly, the world becomes an endlessly fascinating place that I can't bear to be away from.
And on that note, I'm going to pop by the Botanic Gardens on the way to the library. See how the plants are getting on now that Spring is, well, springing. The librarian is hunting down an article that I've convinced myself I Really Need and it is entirely because I haven't read said article that I can't start work on the essay. Think my nails also need to be clipped, my duvet changing, my teeth flossed and my room hoovered. All much more important, in the grand scheme of things, than actually settling down to work.
If I've a deadline approaching, the number of trips to a supermarket in a week will quadruple - 'must find the best offers, save money' - and likewise, in a rather contrary position, my visits to the pub will increase as well. I justify not setting an alarm because otherwise I'm too tired to work effectively; it surely is better to get a Good Night's Sleep, wake up refreshed, bright eyed and bushy tailed. Never quite happens like that, because I then end up missing pretty much the entire morning (I have given up recently and decided that mornings just don't exist for anything other than a slow wake up process coupled with GMTV). By the time it gets to two in the afternoon, you've wasted so much of the day that plans are already being formulated to justify setting aside that Full Day Of Work until tomorrow. At about 9pm, assuming there is nothing watchable on television (and what is defined as Watchable becomes increasingly vague as deadlines approach), and there are no plans to pop to the pub, I manage to feel a twinge of guilt and launch into work head-on. Which means I end up being awake until about 2am with a growing feeling of panic, realising how much there is to be done and Dear God, why didn't I just do it three weeks ago. Firm plans are set in place to get up the next day and get on with it, but somehow when that alarm goes at 0730 you forget the enthusiasm of the night before, throw the stupid thing to the other side of the room, and slumber until around 11am. Oops.
You can always tell when I have a deadline because my room is close to immaculate. Books are neatly ordered, clothes folded, pens in the pen pot and not a speck of dust in sight. The justification for all this stems from the general idea that I can't work in a disordered mess and therefore the room MUST be tidy. Hmm. I'll also frequent the gym considerably more than usual - even better if I can get out on the river - with the theory being that I need to release those endorphins tucked away somewhere and then gain enthusiasm out of nowhere for my work.
Although maybe that is an inaccurate description... I am enthusiastic, I am genuinely interested. (So interested I've read every single book in the library, relevant and otherwise, remotely linked to my subject - one can never do enough research, right?). I object to having to form my ideas into a ten thousand word extravaganza that will be scrutinized and analysed and subjected to the glares of superiors making derisory comments. It doesn't actually take that long when I get going, am fortunately a ludicrously fast typist and I never start writing until I know exactly what is going in that essay, its just the thought of crouching over a computer for ten hours or so that really puts me off. Suddenly, the world becomes an endlessly fascinating place that I can't bear to be away from.
And on that note, I'm going to pop by the Botanic Gardens on the way to the library. See how the plants are getting on now that Spring is, well, springing. The librarian is hunting down an article that I've convinced myself I Really Need and it is entirely because I haven't read said article that I can't start work on the essay. Think my nails also need to be clipped, my duvet changing, my teeth flossed and my room hoovered. All much more important, in the grand scheme of things, than actually settling down to work.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
A few positives...
It has been suggested that perhaps I set up an alternative blog to list all the positive aspects of this wonderful world of ours. I considered the possibility briefly, before realising that all said aspects can probably be incorporated into a single posting. I'll try and pinpoint a few of them and see how it develops - who knows, maybe this post will be the pathway toward becoming an optimist.
Beaches. Actually, this isn't technically true. I like the idea of beaches - I spend hours imagining a suitably tropical paradise to escape to, ideally complete with monkey and palm tree. In reality, though, sand gets right on my nerves, and I cannot bear the feel of sand between my toes. I'm much more of a 'lie on a convenient rock' sort of person, although there is of course the issue of grinding my bones on that. Hm. Maybe I don't like beaches after all.
Ice-Cream. Now, surely, I can't find fault with the likes of Mr Ben and Mr Jerry, a fantastic duo who have accompanied myself and millions of other women on those inevitable tear-filled nights. The problem is, of course, it is very easy to enter into that dangerous cycle: eat ice-cream to feel better, then realise the vast quantity of calories consumed. Therefore feel miserable, and lo and behold, head back to the freezer department. Ice-cream is really only suitable as a reward for, say, running a marathon - those poor calories need replacing ASAP. Unfortunately however, I can't say as I ever run for the bus, let alone slog away for twenty-six miles. Hm.
Family Photographs. I do enjoy a good few hour session going through photographs - the ones of you and your siblings looking really rather daft, and your parents with outrageous hairstyles. (In the case of my mother, winged glasses are a prominent feature in many snaps. Most unsettling). Being child number three, there are considerably fewer photos of me than of my brother and sister - the novelty of 'cute child in funny hat', or, 'first time waddling' photos had somewhat evaporated by the time I appeared on the scene. Which does no end of damage to one's ego, realising you are the Less Interesting and Non Innovative Number Three. Sigh.
Massages. These are lined up neatly alongside beaches, I'm thinking. Something I dream about for hours but when it comes down to it, really can't stand them. First massage experience was in Jamaica: legs riddled with mosquito bites and the damn woman insisted on rubbing in some substance that burned pretty damn painfully. Risked a second attempt in Goa a few months back: thought I was getting a bargain, about five pounds for one and a half hours of personal attention. Not only do I dislike being forced to strip and then rubbed down by some random woman, but she also came close to permanently removing my kneecaps.
Complaining (specifically, on my blog). Ach, I love it. It gives me immense please to know that on a daily basis I am offending people, being annoying, insulting and cutting, all combined with a smug, self-righteous and downright arrogant attitude. I think I've just concluded that everything I thought I liked is actually fraught with hidden mini-hells, and that the creation of a 'CheerfulJane' counterblog just wouldn't work. And on that note, I'll leave you and indulge in a few episodes of, 'Family Guy'. Stewie for President, I say.
Beaches. Actually, this isn't technically true. I like the idea of beaches - I spend hours imagining a suitably tropical paradise to escape to, ideally complete with monkey and palm tree. In reality, though, sand gets right on my nerves, and I cannot bear the feel of sand between my toes. I'm much more of a 'lie on a convenient rock' sort of person, although there is of course the issue of grinding my bones on that. Hm. Maybe I don't like beaches after all.
Ice-Cream. Now, surely, I can't find fault with the likes of Mr Ben and Mr Jerry, a fantastic duo who have accompanied myself and millions of other women on those inevitable tear-filled nights. The problem is, of course, it is very easy to enter into that dangerous cycle: eat ice-cream to feel better, then realise the vast quantity of calories consumed. Therefore feel miserable, and lo and behold, head back to the freezer department. Ice-cream is really only suitable as a reward for, say, running a marathon - those poor calories need replacing ASAP. Unfortunately however, I can't say as I ever run for the bus, let alone slog away for twenty-six miles. Hm.
Family Photographs. I do enjoy a good few hour session going through photographs - the ones of you and your siblings looking really rather daft, and your parents with outrageous hairstyles. (In the case of my mother, winged glasses are a prominent feature in many snaps. Most unsettling). Being child number three, there are considerably fewer photos of me than of my brother and sister - the novelty of 'cute child in funny hat', or, 'first time waddling' photos had somewhat evaporated by the time I appeared on the scene. Which does no end of damage to one's ego, realising you are the Less Interesting and Non Innovative Number Three. Sigh.
Massages. These are lined up neatly alongside beaches, I'm thinking. Something I dream about for hours but when it comes down to it, really can't stand them. First massage experience was in Jamaica: legs riddled with mosquito bites and the damn woman insisted on rubbing in some substance that burned pretty damn painfully. Risked a second attempt in Goa a few months back: thought I was getting a bargain, about five pounds for one and a half hours of personal attention. Not only do I dislike being forced to strip and then rubbed down by some random woman, but she also came close to permanently removing my kneecaps.
Complaining (specifically, on my blog). Ach, I love it. It gives me immense please to know that on a daily basis I am offending people, being annoying, insulting and cutting, all combined with a smug, self-righteous and downright arrogant attitude. I think I've just concluded that everything I thought I liked is actually fraught with hidden mini-hells, and that the creation of a 'CheerfulJane' counterblog just wouldn't work. And on that note, I'll leave you and indulge in a few episodes of, 'Family Guy'. Stewie for President, I say.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Bright Young Thing
Felt somewhat like a veritable Bright Young Thing yesterday. The weather co-operated with plans and thus allowed a trip to London in a Porsche with the roof down (at least part of the way - practicalities won over in the end), and the day culminated in attendance at the Apollo Theatre to see Kathleen Turner and Bill Irwin in Albee's, 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?' An excellent performance which even included interval-entertainment: the surrounding A-level English Lit. students made various 'knowledgeable' remarks about the play, bland comments and a clear misconception of the Key Points. That four people can captivate the attention of hundreds for over three hours is really rather an achievement.
'Get a teenager while they still know everything.' Those kids last night certainly thought they knew everything. I felt like turning round and yelling at them to back away from English Lit., leave it on the shelf where it should be. Shakespeare and Chaucer will not take offence if we set them aside in preference for something such as, oh I don't know, physics. Anything. Anything with a PURPOSE to it. If they aren't careful, they'll wind up writing pointless 2500 word essays for the next three years (why 2500? why?), looking for links where there are no links, tapping out iambic rhythms with a pencil and finding it genuinely exciting when a line of a poem breaks with that rhythm. And if that English Lit. student isn't damn careful, they'll wind up reading something even more pointless for a Masters - maybe even Women's Studies if they're particularly unlucky. They'll drop over ten grand on a nine month course from hell that barely makes them more employable and leads to a significant decrease in sanity.
Which all means that taking a break occasionally and launching into that illusion of being a Bright Young Thing is essential for survival. I will of course continue to make disparaging comments about people who go armed with picnic blanket and bottle of champagne to punt haphazardly up the river and all that sort of Cliched Behaviour - but, I'm going to carry on being a part of it all. If I'm going to be in debt, I may as well enjoy the process...
'Get a teenager while they still know everything.' Those kids last night certainly thought they knew everything. I felt like turning round and yelling at them to back away from English Lit., leave it on the shelf where it should be. Shakespeare and Chaucer will not take offence if we set them aside in preference for something such as, oh I don't know, physics. Anything. Anything with a PURPOSE to it. If they aren't careful, they'll wind up writing pointless 2500 word essays for the next three years (why 2500? why?), looking for links where there are no links, tapping out iambic rhythms with a pencil and finding it genuinely exciting when a line of a poem breaks with that rhythm. And if that English Lit. student isn't damn careful, they'll wind up reading something even more pointless for a Masters - maybe even Women's Studies if they're particularly unlucky. They'll drop over ten grand on a nine month course from hell that barely makes them more employable and leads to a significant decrease in sanity.
Which all means that taking a break occasionally and launching into that illusion of being a Bright Young Thing is essential for survival. I will of course continue to make disparaging comments about people who go armed with picnic blanket and bottle of champagne to punt haphazardly up the river and all that sort of Cliched Behaviour - but, I'm going to carry on being a part of it all. If I'm going to be in debt, I may as well enjoy the process...
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Ah, Vanity
I just saw something hilarious on television that I have to share with you. A woman was quite literally ironing her hair - pulling up a section from her head, towel on one side, iron on the other. To check the final effect, she glanced into the reflective iron base.
Maybe that whole scenario is 'normal' for some of you, but it has to be one of the more ludicrously daft moves in the pursuit of beauty that I've seen in quite some time. I find it generally rather insane that everyone with straight hair wants curls, and everyone with curly hair wants it straight - and to that end, they will utilise a variety of curling tongs, straighteners and God knows what else, a lethal array of instruments. Eyelash curlers look like some modern kind of thumb screw, many women - painfully, I'll add - pluck their eyebrows into almost non existence. I would say that most women in Britain spend over two hours a week applying, removing and perfecting nail polish, and that doesn't include the idle use of emery boards to achieve the preferred shape of nail.
I have one Luxury Item for my body in my entire room, and that is my recently acquired Body Butter. Wow, that stuff is fantastic. Don't generally like wandering around smelling like a fruit basket but will give in for the silky smooth feeling on my legs, mm mmm.
So the average female on a night out ends up spending a good half hour curling/straightening her hair (this assuming that emergency 'highlights' don't have to be put in place); another half hour transforming her face into a mask of heavy black curled lashes, pouting red lips, maidenly blushing cheeks and eyebrows firmly plucked into position (sometimes so much so that they actually have to be redrawn). The shortest skirt is then drawn on over waxed and lubricated legs, the tightest top squeezed into, carefully buffed feet are crammed into tight, impractical heeled hell, and standing in front of the full length mirror the female can breathe a sigh of satisfaction. Or she could do, if she weren't sucking her stomach in while busy practicing her husky voice and come-hither looks.
The fact that said female will then proceed to get blind drunk, remove shoes on the giggling walk home, mascara probably run ever so slightly after that quick weep in the bathroom with the other girls over some guy or other, and thus be transformed from 'beauty' (disputable anyway) to dishevelled mess is of course totally irrelevant. The fact that no guys will value her above the status of Tart will not deter the evening's proceedings. For a brief moment, she will have looked her terrifying version of Fabulous and that is, apparently, enough.
I may look something of a mess half the time, what with my loose jeans, inevitable black polo-neck and sensible shoes, but at least I'm a safe option. My lack of make-up means that I can't be transformed from fairy to fright overnight, and because I don't spend time ironing my hair I will probably at least be on time for any meeting I arrange.
While I'm making snide comments about other women, I want to throw this in too. Watched some of the Commonwealth Games diving this morning - the men had fantastic bodies, 'chiselled' is the word that springs to mind. Muscle bursting out of every limb. Some of the women - 'athletes' - had cellulite. I jest not. What hope is there for the rest of us if they can't avoid the doom of the dimples?? Oh dear.
Maybe that whole scenario is 'normal' for some of you, but it has to be one of the more ludicrously daft moves in the pursuit of beauty that I've seen in quite some time. I find it generally rather insane that everyone with straight hair wants curls, and everyone with curly hair wants it straight - and to that end, they will utilise a variety of curling tongs, straighteners and God knows what else, a lethal array of instruments. Eyelash curlers look like some modern kind of thumb screw, many women - painfully, I'll add - pluck their eyebrows into almost non existence. I would say that most women in Britain spend over two hours a week applying, removing and perfecting nail polish, and that doesn't include the idle use of emery boards to achieve the preferred shape of nail.
I have one Luxury Item for my body in my entire room, and that is my recently acquired Body Butter. Wow, that stuff is fantastic. Don't generally like wandering around smelling like a fruit basket but will give in for the silky smooth feeling on my legs, mm mmm.
So the average female on a night out ends up spending a good half hour curling/straightening her hair (this assuming that emergency 'highlights' don't have to be put in place); another half hour transforming her face into a mask of heavy black curled lashes, pouting red lips, maidenly blushing cheeks and eyebrows firmly plucked into position (sometimes so much so that they actually have to be redrawn). The shortest skirt is then drawn on over waxed and lubricated legs, the tightest top squeezed into, carefully buffed feet are crammed into tight, impractical heeled hell, and standing in front of the full length mirror the female can breathe a sigh of satisfaction. Or she could do, if she weren't sucking her stomach in while busy practicing her husky voice and come-hither looks.
The fact that said female will then proceed to get blind drunk, remove shoes on the giggling walk home, mascara probably run ever so slightly after that quick weep in the bathroom with the other girls over some guy or other, and thus be transformed from 'beauty' (disputable anyway) to dishevelled mess is of course totally irrelevant. The fact that no guys will value her above the status of Tart will not deter the evening's proceedings. For a brief moment, she will have looked her terrifying version of Fabulous and that is, apparently, enough.
I may look something of a mess half the time, what with my loose jeans, inevitable black polo-neck and sensible shoes, but at least I'm a safe option. My lack of make-up means that I can't be transformed from fairy to fright overnight, and because I don't spend time ironing my hair I will probably at least be on time for any meeting I arrange.
While I'm making snide comments about other women, I want to throw this in too. Watched some of the Commonwealth Games diving this morning - the men had fantastic bodies, 'chiselled' is the word that springs to mind. Muscle bursting out of every limb. Some of the women - 'athletes' - had cellulite. I jest not. What hope is there for the rest of us if they can't avoid the doom of the dimples?? Oh dear.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Furious with fake illness
It is inevitable with some of my rants that I tread on a few peoples' toes, but this one is definitely going to leave some of you fuming. Excellent.
I'm here to complain about the proliferation of mental illnesses. Let's take ADHD first - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Dear Lord, just look at those terms all clumped together... its incredible, isn't it, how many more kids have been diagnosed since this illness has been 'discovered'? It essentially boils down to bad parenting, and that is frankly the end of the matter. Kid is brat, parent can't cope any longer, parent goes to doctor, doctor says, 'oh, looks like another case of ADHD to me' and throws ritalin at the child. Ritalin is a controlled drug, which basically means parents with children taking it are given grants from the government to assist in 'care'. Additionally, if that child needs the ritalin during school hours it is a nightmare having to go to certain people to dispense it appropriately. Parents are willing to have their ghastly children dosed up to the eyeballs for a bit of peace and a few quid a week.
Next on the agenda: bi-polar disorder/manic depression. I feel qualified to speak on this subject for a number of reasons, the first being that I used to know a guy who suffered from depression and it was real, very real. I've been to the Bipolar Organisation website this morning and from what I can work out, I suffer. I mean, heck, I have mood swings like nobody's business, and strangely enough they seem to come at particularly stressful times in my life... What, you think, dear Reader, that you may have it too? Funny that, eh. I think its called 'being human'. (Read the first chapter of 'Three Men in a Boat', the narrator is disappointed to find out the only ailment he doesn't suffer from is Housemaid's Knee). Guess what - if I amble along to a psychiatrist and say sheesh, check me out, I go mental sometimes and I can't control it, he'll potentially whack me onto a load of drugs and just for kicks I'll get money from the government to support me.
Next up: 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time'. Or whatever the hell it is called. If one more person tells me that, 'as a psychologist, I found it fascinating, a very real impression of what it is like to have Asperger's Syndrome', I will actually kill them. (And thus demonstrate my bi-polar tendencies in the meantime, apparently. Bonus). The only way this book can be described is in terms that I don't wish to go into on my blog, but it is appalling, degrading, and frankly inaccurate. Asperger's, for those not in the know, is essentially low-grade Autism. Sufferers are, for example, unable to judge social situations well and have difficulty reacting to people and their feelings. Heck, it seems I have Aspergers as well. More money for the Ranter.
I wonder how much money is poured out to these 'sufferers' on an annual basis? And in addition, how much in benefits is granted to those who are obese, those who can't work because they're smoked for years and now have no lungs to speak of, those who've drunk themselves half to death and are being kept alive by an expensive concoction of surgery, drugs and rehabilitation. Just think, if all that money were taken and put aside - and heck, we have to be talking millions if not billions here - we could use it for something useful. Hell, a cure for cancer maybe. More research into Alzheimers. Illnesses that are genuine and painfully real. I am sick to death of people who complain about their 'hard life dealing with depression' when they don't know the meaning of either the word 'depression' or the concept of 'hard life'. I recommend they move their self-pitying asses into a cancer ward. Go to a radiotherapy department. Self-pity doesn't bloody come into it. For all I care, you can go take your twenty-first century mental health problem and jump because all it amounts to is you feeling that you haven't had a fair deal. Life isn't fair. Life sucks. People who have worked their entire lives for the benefit of others are informed that their retirement gift is a nice dose of cancer; babies are born horrendously deformed; a young mother can be killed in a freak accident. Let's make it topical and think about those poor sods currently fighting for their lives after helping out with a medical drug trial.
Take responsibility for yourselves and be damn glad that you can. Enough said.
I'm here to complain about the proliferation of mental illnesses. Let's take ADHD first - Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. Dear Lord, just look at those terms all clumped together... its incredible, isn't it, how many more kids have been diagnosed since this illness has been 'discovered'? It essentially boils down to bad parenting, and that is frankly the end of the matter. Kid is brat, parent can't cope any longer, parent goes to doctor, doctor says, 'oh, looks like another case of ADHD to me' and throws ritalin at the child. Ritalin is a controlled drug, which basically means parents with children taking it are given grants from the government to assist in 'care'. Additionally, if that child needs the ritalin during school hours it is a nightmare having to go to certain people to dispense it appropriately. Parents are willing to have their ghastly children dosed up to the eyeballs for a bit of peace and a few quid a week.
Next on the agenda: bi-polar disorder/manic depression. I feel qualified to speak on this subject for a number of reasons, the first being that I used to know a guy who suffered from depression and it was real, very real. I've been to the Bipolar Organisation website this morning and from what I can work out, I suffer. I mean, heck, I have mood swings like nobody's business, and strangely enough they seem to come at particularly stressful times in my life... What, you think, dear Reader, that you may have it too? Funny that, eh. I think its called 'being human'. (Read the first chapter of 'Three Men in a Boat', the narrator is disappointed to find out the only ailment he doesn't suffer from is Housemaid's Knee). Guess what - if I amble along to a psychiatrist and say sheesh, check me out, I go mental sometimes and I can't control it, he'll potentially whack me onto a load of drugs and just for kicks I'll get money from the government to support me.
Next up: 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time'. Or whatever the hell it is called. If one more person tells me that, 'as a psychologist, I found it fascinating, a very real impression of what it is like to have Asperger's Syndrome', I will actually kill them. (And thus demonstrate my bi-polar tendencies in the meantime, apparently. Bonus). The only way this book can be described is in terms that I don't wish to go into on my blog, but it is appalling, degrading, and frankly inaccurate. Asperger's, for those not in the know, is essentially low-grade Autism. Sufferers are, for example, unable to judge social situations well and have difficulty reacting to people and their feelings. Heck, it seems I have Aspergers as well. More money for the Ranter.
I wonder how much money is poured out to these 'sufferers' on an annual basis? And in addition, how much in benefits is granted to those who are obese, those who can't work because they're smoked for years and now have no lungs to speak of, those who've drunk themselves half to death and are being kept alive by an expensive concoction of surgery, drugs and rehabilitation. Just think, if all that money were taken and put aside - and heck, we have to be talking millions if not billions here - we could use it for something useful. Hell, a cure for cancer maybe. More research into Alzheimers. Illnesses that are genuine and painfully real. I am sick to death of people who complain about their 'hard life dealing with depression' when they don't know the meaning of either the word 'depression' or the concept of 'hard life'. I recommend they move their self-pitying asses into a cancer ward. Go to a radiotherapy department. Self-pity doesn't bloody come into it. For all I care, you can go take your twenty-first century mental health problem and jump because all it amounts to is you feeling that you haven't had a fair deal. Life isn't fair. Life sucks. People who have worked their entire lives for the benefit of others are informed that their retirement gift is a nice dose of cancer; babies are born horrendously deformed; a young mother can be killed in a freak accident. Let's make it topical and think about those poor sods currently fighting for their lives after helping out with a medical drug trial.
Take responsibility for yourselves and be damn glad that you can. Enough said.
Friday, March 17, 2006
On Being Decidedly Fed Up
Well, this is my blog and I can put what I like on it. You don't have to read it.
You aren't obliged to read about how I currently hate pay-as-you-go phones almost as much as I hate contract phones, in that I've been trying to top up the stupid thing by their fancy automatic method for the past twentyfour hours and the damn service is 'currently unavailable'. I thought technology was meant to make my life easier, not raise my blood pressure through the roof.
Neither do you have to read about my inevitable work struggles, that backlog created through a subtle combination of initial idleness and eventual illness. I say idle, I don't see what is wrong with having a few days off here and there - how was I supposed to know stomach bug from hell would strike and force me to lie quivering in my bed for days, the lack of food and water leading to a brain that functions only to say, 'stomach hurts, don't eat, I'm no longer interested in Ovid and his relation to eighteenth century women poets'.
I guess you don't have to know that I'm back in the throes of one of my, dear God, what am I going to do when I graduate, depressive states. What is the point in it all? You either do something remotely worthwhile in which case you get paid either nothing or as close to nothing as government rules allow, or you sell your soul and work for some giant corporation that is hardly necessary to the continuation of health, humanity or the globe in general but has managed to convince a good portion of the world's population that its continued existence is essential. What was the argument I was having yesterday? Oh yes, the EU. Isn't it such a marvellous creation - thanks to the EU, I could go work in France or Germany with no problems at all. Brilliant. The fact that a few hundred years ago I could go work and travel wherever I bloody well wanted and didn't need the nod of some huge umbrella organisation to do so is of course irrelevant. The EU is merely functioning to bring the world back to what it used to be - but being part of this globalised hell in which we all have to live, it'll never work. Not fully.
Here's the issue. I CAN'T work for any of those organisations - the ones that actually pay remotely decent wages - even if I wanted to. Not only because I have acknowledged all the lies and its ultimately fake construction, but because of the environment. I can't get up at 6am every day and squeeze myself into the confines of a suit, ram myself into a packed tube train and get hurtled across London via the odd bomb or two into a nice and modern chrome-with-glass office. To sit around and push paper and pretend it means anything to anyone. To have to work myself half to death because that is what other idiots are prepared to do and why the hell should they get promoted if I'm not. It would kill me doing all that. Or if not me, any element of me that feels remotely alive.
Yes, today is just going to be one of those days. Marvellous.
You aren't obliged to read about how I currently hate pay-as-you-go phones almost as much as I hate contract phones, in that I've been trying to top up the stupid thing by their fancy automatic method for the past twentyfour hours and the damn service is 'currently unavailable'. I thought technology was meant to make my life easier, not raise my blood pressure through the roof.
Neither do you have to read about my inevitable work struggles, that backlog created through a subtle combination of initial idleness and eventual illness. I say idle, I don't see what is wrong with having a few days off here and there - how was I supposed to know stomach bug from hell would strike and force me to lie quivering in my bed for days, the lack of food and water leading to a brain that functions only to say, 'stomach hurts, don't eat, I'm no longer interested in Ovid and his relation to eighteenth century women poets'.
I guess you don't have to know that I'm back in the throes of one of my, dear God, what am I going to do when I graduate, depressive states. What is the point in it all? You either do something remotely worthwhile in which case you get paid either nothing or as close to nothing as government rules allow, or you sell your soul and work for some giant corporation that is hardly necessary to the continuation of health, humanity or the globe in general but has managed to convince a good portion of the world's population that its continued existence is essential. What was the argument I was having yesterday? Oh yes, the EU. Isn't it such a marvellous creation - thanks to the EU, I could go work in France or Germany with no problems at all. Brilliant. The fact that a few hundred years ago I could go work and travel wherever I bloody well wanted and didn't need the nod of some huge umbrella organisation to do so is of course irrelevant. The EU is merely functioning to bring the world back to what it used to be - but being part of this globalised hell in which we all have to live, it'll never work. Not fully.
Here's the issue. I CAN'T work for any of those organisations - the ones that actually pay remotely decent wages - even if I wanted to. Not only because I have acknowledged all the lies and its ultimately fake construction, but because of the environment. I can't get up at 6am every day and squeeze myself into the confines of a suit, ram myself into a packed tube train and get hurtled across London via the odd bomb or two into a nice and modern chrome-with-glass office. To sit around and push paper and pretend it means anything to anyone. To have to work myself half to death because that is what other idiots are prepared to do and why the hell should they get promoted if I'm not. It would kill me doing all that. Or if not me, any element of me that feels remotely alive.
Yes, today is just going to be one of those days. Marvellous.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
On dreaming of a foreign land
Once more, I regret to inform those readers tuned in for a good old-fashioned Jane-style uber-rant that they will be disappointed. I am in a prodigiously fine mood and can't see it changing in the course of creating this post.
A few years ago, I spent three weeks wandering around Italy armed with a backpack and a distressingly short and annoying school companion. I'm not entirely sure what she was doing there, how she came to accompany me, but I do know that ever since this hellish experience I refused to ever travel with anyone again. I was suddenly responsible not only for myself but for an apparently wholly incompetent defenceless little girl, who accepted the advances of amorous elderly Italians with open arms. My sojourn in beautiful Italy suddenly combined the intended role of impressionable young tourist with those of protector, translator and picker-up-of-pieces. One heavenly day I finally had a break when I escaped to the island of Capri. I sat in the bow of a wooden rowing boat, armed with an Australian, a large quantity of grapes and a carafe of wine, and was rowed slowly and steadily towards the Grotta Azzurra. You enter the grotto from the sea via a low archway, that leads you into what is frankly the most beautiful place I have ever encountered to date. Our boatman was a particularly good sport, as he rowed us to the shadows towards the back of the grotto and - when there was a gap in the influx of other tourists - signalled for us to dive in. Everything turns to silver as soon as it touches the water, and there was I, fully-clothed, in paradise.
There is a point to my sauntering down memory lane. I've been fixated on the idea of returning ever since, and finally could have an opportunity on my birthday this year. Hopefully this time I'll get to actually stay on the island, a few days of escapism in the middle of dissertation production. If anybody has any great ideas on how I can actually live there for eternity, please inform me in the immediate future. I'll be sure to make it worth your while...
A few years ago, I spent three weeks wandering around Italy armed with a backpack and a distressingly short and annoying school companion. I'm not entirely sure what she was doing there, how she came to accompany me, but I do know that ever since this hellish experience I refused to ever travel with anyone again. I was suddenly responsible not only for myself but for an apparently wholly incompetent defenceless little girl, who accepted the advances of amorous elderly Italians with open arms. My sojourn in beautiful Italy suddenly combined the intended role of impressionable young tourist with those of protector, translator and picker-up-of-pieces. One heavenly day I finally had a break when I escaped to the island of Capri. I sat in the bow of a wooden rowing boat, armed with an Australian, a large quantity of grapes and a carafe of wine, and was rowed slowly and steadily towards the Grotta Azzurra. You enter the grotto from the sea via a low archway, that leads you into what is frankly the most beautiful place I have ever encountered to date. Our boatman was a particularly good sport, as he rowed us to the shadows towards the back of the grotto and - when there was a gap in the influx of other tourists - signalled for us to dive in. Everything turns to silver as soon as it touches the water, and there was I, fully-clothed, in paradise.
There is a point to my sauntering down memory lane. I've been fixated on the idea of returning ever since, and finally could have an opportunity on my birthday this year. Hopefully this time I'll get to actually stay on the island, a few days of escapism in the middle of dissertation production. If anybody has any great ideas on how I can actually live there for eternity, please inform me in the immediate future. I'll be sure to make it worth your while...
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Oxford - heaven or hell?
I've been asked by a fellow, suffering Oxfordonian to express a few views on those negative aspects of Oxford that nobody really gets to know about until a few months too late (i.e. you're installed on course, signed away even your distant relation's bank accounts, and have finally worked out after many traumatic trying-on sessions how the damn gown is meant to be worn). If, dear reader, you do not frequent Oxford University then banish whatever myths you have heard about the place...
Everyone knows that Oxford represents academic excellence - which simultaneously means, academic hell. You may be the bright spark in your school, but the first conversation you have here is guaranteed to be with someone streets ahead of you intelligence wise, and you'll spend the subsequent few years battling to break into the middle of the pack. At the end of the year, you'll be shuffled into an exam hall with the other poor sods on your course and given three hour tests. Just to make the experience unique, Oxford requires that you wear full sub fusc - guys, yes, you will be sitting exams in a bow tie. In addition to trying to learn a few thousand (useless) facts, you'll be forced to devote a good portion of your precious time to learning how to tie the damn thing correctly to avoid additional exam-morning-stress.
If you do really well in the exams, perhaps you'll think of studying for a Phd. Correction: at Oxford, you will work towards a DPhil. There is no logic behind this slight tweaking of the issue other than Oxford likes to be Different For No Good Reason. Considering the laboratory facilities are archaic in comparison to what is on offer at other schools, and in many instances the lecture halls and accommodation are just plain impractical, being Different For No Good Reason is maintained by Oxford in order to ensure elite status of the university.
Oxford these days is even complete with groupies - or rather, anti-groupies. The Animal Liberation Front (think that is what ALF stands for) provides background noise for all in geography/zoology/biology lectures, a bunch of die-hard protestors who have achieved absolutely nothing other than quadrupling the cost of building a new lab. I too am against futile animal testing, but please, anyone who threatens me - a Women's Studies student who wouldn't be able to jab a needle into anything that was going to squeak back at me - well, they kind of annoy me.
At Oxford you are given three days to write an essay, and the end product is peeled apart word by word until you realise that only four of the three thousand words were in the right place and meant something. You are granted a place here on the basis that you are intelligent enough to be here, and the rest of your time will be spent listening to tutors who are intent on proving that you are worthless. You pay an extra two thousand odd pounds a year on top of tuition fees to be a member of a college, which gives you no extra priveleges whatsoever and means nothing to anybody outside the institute. You attempt to retreat into your chosen sport for a 'break from work' and find yourself in bi-weekly competition with other colleges, and those without a cut-throat attitude to winning will not make the team. You are poked and prodded and directed and, unless you're careful, left a mere shadow of your former self. The likes of Charles and Sebastian do not reside in Oxford - much as I like to see the ivy in the botanic gardens, there is the constant nagging thought I should be doing something Useful. Being surrounded by so much success, it is hard to avoid getting dragged into the challenge.
Up until now, I've been successful in avoiding certain aspects of Oxford. I haven't taken to drinking gallons of coffee so I can squeeze in an extra few hours work, I don't sprint towards the library at the end of a tutorial to get the books required for the following week before any of my fellow students can pantingly arrive in my glorious wake. And, for the sake of my sanity, I intend to keep it this way: drifting along on the fringes, nobody entirely sure if I'm a genius or a complete dunce. I'll take Oxford for what it is: a feature on my CV. A game I played for a year. I've had some unforgettable and unique experiences here, don't get me wrong, and I'm suitably grateful for the opportunity to be part of the academic glory.
But dear God, I can't wait to get the hell away from here.
Everyone knows that Oxford represents academic excellence - which simultaneously means, academic hell. You may be the bright spark in your school, but the first conversation you have here is guaranteed to be with someone streets ahead of you intelligence wise, and you'll spend the subsequent few years battling to break into the middle of the pack. At the end of the year, you'll be shuffled into an exam hall with the other poor sods on your course and given three hour tests. Just to make the experience unique, Oxford requires that you wear full sub fusc - guys, yes, you will be sitting exams in a bow tie. In addition to trying to learn a few thousand (useless) facts, you'll be forced to devote a good portion of your precious time to learning how to tie the damn thing correctly to avoid additional exam-morning-stress.
If you do really well in the exams, perhaps you'll think of studying for a Phd. Correction: at Oxford, you will work towards a DPhil. There is no logic behind this slight tweaking of the issue other than Oxford likes to be Different For No Good Reason. Considering the laboratory facilities are archaic in comparison to what is on offer at other schools, and in many instances the lecture halls and accommodation are just plain impractical, being Different For No Good Reason is maintained by Oxford in order to ensure elite status of the university.
Oxford these days is even complete with groupies - or rather, anti-groupies. The Animal Liberation Front (think that is what ALF stands for) provides background noise for all in geography/zoology/biology lectures, a bunch of die-hard protestors who have achieved absolutely nothing other than quadrupling the cost of building a new lab. I too am against futile animal testing, but please, anyone who threatens me - a Women's Studies student who wouldn't be able to jab a needle into anything that was going to squeak back at me - well, they kind of annoy me.
At Oxford you are given three days to write an essay, and the end product is peeled apart word by word until you realise that only four of the three thousand words were in the right place and meant something. You are granted a place here on the basis that you are intelligent enough to be here, and the rest of your time will be spent listening to tutors who are intent on proving that you are worthless. You pay an extra two thousand odd pounds a year on top of tuition fees to be a member of a college, which gives you no extra priveleges whatsoever and means nothing to anybody outside the institute. You attempt to retreat into your chosen sport for a 'break from work' and find yourself in bi-weekly competition with other colleges, and those without a cut-throat attitude to winning will not make the team. You are poked and prodded and directed and, unless you're careful, left a mere shadow of your former self. The likes of Charles and Sebastian do not reside in Oxford - much as I like to see the ivy in the botanic gardens, there is the constant nagging thought I should be doing something Useful. Being surrounded by so much success, it is hard to avoid getting dragged into the challenge.
Up until now, I've been successful in avoiding certain aspects of Oxford. I haven't taken to drinking gallons of coffee so I can squeeze in an extra few hours work, I don't sprint towards the library at the end of a tutorial to get the books required for the following week before any of my fellow students can pantingly arrive in my glorious wake. And, for the sake of my sanity, I intend to keep it this way: drifting along on the fringes, nobody entirely sure if I'm a genius or a complete dunce. I'll take Oxford for what it is: a feature on my CV. A game I played for a year. I've had some unforgettable and unique experiences here, don't get me wrong, and I'm suitably grateful for the opportunity to be part of the academic glory.
But dear God, I can't wait to get the hell away from here.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
On solving the economic crisis
I set someone the task yesterday of giving me a topic to rant about - 'baths versus showers' was the outcome of that conversation, and I tried valiantly to feel passionately about either but frankly failed. So I'm sorry, this is going to be on something totally different.
We are constantly informed in various television programmes that death is nigh for the majority of us. 'You are what you eat' exists to find clinically obese people to slim down with a diet of ghastly looking vegetable juices and nut roasts, while, 'Celebrity Fit Club' (can never remember if is 'Fit' or 'Fat' in there) rounds up a host of blubbery minor celebs to be put through an 'arduous' training regime to make them lose weight practically before our eyes. While I'm mentioning this programme, can I also mention the ridiculous nature of it: someone who is over twenty stone being set the task of losing three pounds in a week, it isn't exactly much to ask is it. (Another total aside: on 'You are what you eat' recently, a guy lost four stone in eight weeks. That equates to an average of seven pounds a week. If he'd been on 'Celebrity Fit Club' he'd have been told off for losing weight too fast. Huh). A recent episode of the Celebrity Blubber Fest saw one man being informed that he was so overweight, so lacking in nutrients, that the presenter's computer programme had worked out he was actually dead. Which goes to show a few things, including that those packages are totally pointless.
Anyway, this is my point. Every day on the news there is some ghastly story about the increasing rates of, oh I don't know, lesser-spotted cancer of the ear lobe, and how we should all be watching out for it. And yet today, the BBC reliably informs me that a recent study suggests we're all living so long that by the year 2050 retirement age will have to be set at 85years of age.
Yes - that's right. Take a step back and read it again. Your average university graduate (and since by 2050 the government will have worked it so that EVERYONE goes to university) will be working for 64 years. They'll then have two days to look heavenwards, say, phew! I need a rest after that - and promptly get whisked off to a Higher Place. (Anyone who doesn't get rewarded by going to Heaven after working that long, it seems to me the system is a bit screwed).
This is ridiculous. On the one hand, it is apparently a minor miracle any of us make it past forty, and on the other hand we're being punished for living too long. Someone is getting their facts mixed up...
I'd also like to point out a few further problems with people working until they are 85. For one, I would say the majority of new mothers rely on their own parents to help look after the newborn whippersnapper. This wont be possible under legislation to have both mother and grandmother slogging away full-time. Family bonds will break down even further as a result, and nobody will have any time to see the child. We'll breed a new generation of socially inept individuals (and men who will constantly be on the look-out for a 'mother figure' in their girlfriend. That just isn't healthy).
Another issue with this: you'll have a few 95year olds in residential care homes, being looked after by a gang of hip-replaced, incontinent workers who themselves need an afternoon nap just to get through the day.
Here is my solution to the problem. Get rid of all these 'labour-saving devices' that exist in all shops, factories and businesses these days - get everyone employed again. Those that genuinely can't work can of course get benefits, and once you hit 65, as is now, your pension starts popping through the door. If you want to carry on working, by all means go ahead - and no discrimination. This will all have a few effects: one, all those lazy sods who never intend getting a job but prefer to live off the government - well they wont be able to do that anymore and they wont be able to use the excuse there 'are no jobs'. (Maybe, just maybe, there will be an element of 'pride' and 'self respect' creeping back into the country as well). Two, everything will slow down a wee bit, this is true - but that is a good thing. (Refer to post of a few days ago where I asked, 'where did the time go to just stop and smell the flowers?'). Three, with everyone working and everyone paying some portion of tax, the government will have an awful lot of spare money kicking around. This can go towards a few useful things such as, heck, pensions for those over 65. Who on earth wants to spend their entire life on a treadmill?
We are constantly informed in various television programmes that death is nigh for the majority of us. 'You are what you eat' exists to find clinically obese people to slim down with a diet of ghastly looking vegetable juices and nut roasts, while, 'Celebrity Fit Club' (can never remember if is 'Fit' or 'Fat' in there) rounds up a host of blubbery minor celebs to be put through an 'arduous' training regime to make them lose weight practically before our eyes. While I'm mentioning this programme, can I also mention the ridiculous nature of it: someone who is over twenty stone being set the task of losing three pounds in a week, it isn't exactly much to ask is it. (Another total aside: on 'You are what you eat' recently, a guy lost four stone in eight weeks. That equates to an average of seven pounds a week. If he'd been on 'Celebrity Fit Club' he'd have been told off for losing weight too fast. Huh). A recent episode of the Celebrity Blubber Fest saw one man being informed that he was so overweight, so lacking in nutrients, that the presenter's computer programme had worked out he was actually dead. Which goes to show a few things, including that those packages are totally pointless.
Anyway, this is my point. Every day on the news there is some ghastly story about the increasing rates of, oh I don't know, lesser-spotted cancer of the ear lobe, and how we should all be watching out for it. And yet today, the BBC reliably informs me that a recent study suggests we're all living so long that by the year 2050 retirement age will have to be set at 85years of age.
Yes - that's right. Take a step back and read it again. Your average university graduate (and since by 2050 the government will have worked it so that EVERYONE goes to university) will be working for 64 years. They'll then have two days to look heavenwards, say, phew! I need a rest after that - and promptly get whisked off to a Higher Place. (Anyone who doesn't get rewarded by going to Heaven after working that long, it seems to me the system is a bit screwed).
This is ridiculous. On the one hand, it is apparently a minor miracle any of us make it past forty, and on the other hand we're being punished for living too long. Someone is getting their facts mixed up...
I'd also like to point out a few further problems with people working until they are 85. For one, I would say the majority of new mothers rely on their own parents to help look after the newborn whippersnapper. This wont be possible under legislation to have both mother and grandmother slogging away full-time. Family bonds will break down even further as a result, and nobody will have any time to see the child. We'll breed a new generation of socially inept individuals (and men who will constantly be on the look-out for a 'mother figure' in their girlfriend. That just isn't healthy).
Another issue with this: you'll have a few 95year olds in residential care homes, being looked after by a gang of hip-replaced, incontinent workers who themselves need an afternoon nap just to get through the day.
Here is my solution to the problem. Get rid of all these 'labour-saving devices' that exist in all shops, factories and businesses these days - get everyone employed again. Those that genuinely can't work can of course get benefits, and once you hit 65, as is now, your pension starts popping through the door. If you want to carry on working, by all means go ahead - and no discrimination. This will all have a few effects: one, all those lazy sods who never intend getting a job but prefer to live off the government - well they wont be able to do that anymore and they wont be able to use the excuse there 'are no jobs'. (Maybe, just maybe, there will be an element of 'pride' and 'self respect' creeping back into the country as well). Two, everything will slow down a wee bit, this is true - but that is a good thing. (Refer to post of a few days ago where I asked, 'where did the time go to just stop and smell the flowers?'). Three, with everyone working and everyone paying some portion of tax, the government will have an awful lot of spare money kicking around. This can go towards a few useful things such as, heck, pensions for those over 65. Who on earth wants to spend their entire life on a treadmill?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
The gap year 'traveller'
(Went out for the first time ever with hair down on Friday evening. Comments on 'new look' required).
So yes, the gap year 'traveller'. Traveller comes complete with inverted commas because of the changing definition of the word that I think no longer applies to the mass tourism created by the cursed travel Industry. It used to be considered exciting and adventurous to launch yourself half way around the world and see Christ looking out over Rio, now it is part of the average twenty-somethings photo album next to their 'drunken night on Fraser Island' and 'me trashed in Cambodia' snaps. If your student room isn't complete with a miniature Buddha, a boomerang and a bong, you just wont fit in.
I've never been into this idea of seeing places for the sake of seeing them. Yes, some of what I've seen has been on what is now the standardised Tourist Trail, but this is in spite of everything rather than because of. I loathe those people who make comments such as, 'Peru! Yeah, I've been there!' as they rattle off the inevitable list: a day in Lima, day in Cusco, the Inca Trail, Lake Titicaca, Arequipa, back to Lima. Peru in a week. They then try to compare our experiences of Peru, a futile attempt to find 'something in common' which is impossible, and dear Lord if we did have something in common I'd probably throw myself from the nearest building.
What happened to individuality? Oh hang on, I know - commercialisation coupled with its inevitable counterpart, capitalism. (Ah, the wonder that is alliteration...). The majority of tourists love the fact that they can eat MacDonalds in any country (I personally appreciate the presence of such places purely for their bathroom facilities), buy Gap jeans at discount prices in certain parts of the world, and if all goes wrong then daddy's Amex card will solve the problem. Every time I go away I put myself in increasingly tough positions with greater challenges, only to have them revealed as mole-hills rather than mountains. To anyone who hasn't been to the Amazon, perhaps travelling by boat up the river for four days into the heart of the jungle sounds exciting, original, fraught with danger. Trust me, it isn't. And look at it this way - hundreds of Peruvians do this every day, and being as both Peruvians and I are mere mortals it is hardly surprising that it is highly feasible. It is amazingly annoying to go to somewhere you perceive as the middle of nowhere to bump into another blasted English person who insists on talking to you for hours purely because you were produced in the same ghastly country.
The typical gap year traveller then comes back loaded with 'experiences' of daring-do that are in reality on a par with getting the tube in London or, for those slightly more adventurous ones, standing on a Bradford street corner at 3am. Much as I like to mock them, though, I will applaud the healthy dose of cynicism that they also return with. After 'seeing the world, man, seeing how like the Other Half live' (i.e. realising that poverty doesn't mean eating a pot noodle for three dinners a week while ensconsed in your small but comfortable student room), the traveller genuinely wants to make a difference. Either that, or they want to give everything up and open a hostel on a remote Honduran beach. I can't wait to see what effect this has on the economy of countries such as the UK, who export vast quantities of these 'gappers' every year. What happens when students don't want to become accountants, but journalists? Not IT geeks, but travel writers? I love how most of the third world would love to have the chance to live in England, and all we want to do is escape it...
Friday, February 10, 2006
On waking up in a foreign land...
I don't need to look at the clock to confirm that once more I've overslept - the sunshine is scything through the slats in the shutters, slicing through the dusty air. I ease my bare legs into shorts, walk slowly to the balcony and refuge of waiting chair while pulling a tshirt roughly onto me. I decide, or it is has been decided, that I'll stay here a while, body warmed by the sun and supported gently by the aged foam of the cushions. From far below, the idle chaos of the city drifts towards me: the sound of buses wheezing up the cobbled street; children's feet slapping wildly on the pavement as they pursue an errant football; the ever-present rhymthic creak of a swing in the park.
After a while, I'll jerk myself back to reality under a cold shower. A clean tshirt will be selected for my venture into the outside world. Each morning I saunter to the bar on the corner, blissfully unaware of the surroundings, pull a book at random from the shelf under the window and, after a brief delay, will be presented ceremoniously with chocolate con churros. The waiter likes to place each item with a flourish, sweeping the cups and plates high before bringing them sharply down onto the table - the chocolate inevitably spills, giving him an excuse to fuss over me some more. Two people are arguing outside the window, poring over a map and exclaiming with grand gesticulations; the woman finally throws her half of the city plan to the man, she storms off and he has no choice but to follow, muttering. Ingleses? asks my waiter. Claro, I respond with a suitably wry smile and raised eyebrows, drawling the word, savouring the emphasis that can be placed on the finale of the first syllable. The waiter throws back his head and laughs, returns to his bar stool and watches the world moving by outside.
After my morning ritual has taken place, I'll probably wander over to a park somewhere. Lie on the grass beneath the trees, head resting on hands and body flat against the cool shade. Maybe today I will take a train, venture towards the area somewhat optimistically referred to as the 'lagoon'. I can take a boat then to an island. Hear nothing but lapping water. At night, I return to the plaza where the bar is. I can stay at the little round metal table until sunrise, drinking wine as I watch the city sleep and wake. See the elderly couple dance together under the lamplight, his arm tight around her waist, her head on his shoulder and eyes closed to the rest of the world. The raucous party of backpackers will leave by two in the morning, heading off to whichever pounding club they have to be seen at that night. I'll talk to my friends if they come by: the woman who sells her carved wooden angels, the man who hands out his stories to passers by. We'll share the wine, he'll walk me home, entreat me with whispered amor amor to let him come up with me. Its a game we play - I walk off with my fingers pressed to my lips, sending him a kiss as I approach the stairwell, he'll stand with hand on heart before grinning, waving, thrusting hands into pockets and leaving.
For now, though, that reality is far below me. I'm in my chair - the one where the dull yellow tufts of foam fight their way through the worn red velvet - and I'm alone. I am at once separated from and connected to the world. I choose my presence or absence, my action or idleness. Nobody need know if I spend the entire day here, just listening to that creaking swing. I have nobody to justify myself to, nobody to interrupt and drag me into reality before I am ready. To be totally isolated in a city of millions of people: surely there is no greater felicity in the world.
----------------------
And people wonder why I want to go back to Buenos Aires?? That is my best explanation. Unless you've lived it, you can't know. Everyone is so intent on going places, doing things, having grand 'experiences.' What happened to taking the time to stop and smell the flowers?
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
On solving the Education Crisis
Years ago when submitting a thesis, my mother proposed the idea that the best teachers should be placed with the youngest children. And what a damn good idea that is. Instill the blighters with some enthusiasm for - well - ANYTHING, and then post them off to secondary schools with a desire to learn, rather than a desire to terrorise the hell out of anyone who wears glasses, or whose skirt is too long, hair too short.
The problem in England is that the majority of new teachers are basically really rather useless. They are the ones who didn't quite make the grade in university, can't work out what to do with themselves, and are drawn in by the offer of £6000 just to complete a teacher's course. We thus end up with people entering the classroom who never enjoyed work themselves, never tried particularly hard, and even if they did, didn't really get very far at all. What use is that to a budding Einstein?? Teachers are basically so darn thick these days that the government has had to come up with grand new methods of teaching - so that the TEACHER can understand what is going on, never mind the kid. Additionally, there is no space for any flair or originality that a teacher might possibly have had a hope in hell of bringing to a classroom, as every hour of every day is carefully planned by some idiot in Whitehall who clearly hasn't a clue. I bet Waterstones and Co. love it: they can just order the syllabus and then stock their shelves with the relevant guides as parents, in last minute essay-panics (yes - parents, kids rarely do their own work these days), charge around for some additional info.
And now everybody is up in arms about 'selection' by some schools. Here is what should happen: every child should take an exam at eleven years old, and the best ones get grouped together in one school, and the worst ones in another. This is not to say that the 'thick kids' are lumped up - it just means some of them take longer to learn than the brighter ones who did better in the exams. It is totally unfair to force the bright sparks to work at the pace of the slow ones, as all that can possibly be created is a bunch of mediocre students. Any enthusiasm the intelligent children had at the beginning of their academic career is knocked out of them by endless repetition and extreme boredom being forced upon them. This is the fault of the teachers, the schools, and that damn curriculum.
What should happen is: teaching should be made a prestigious profession. It should be an honour, not a last resort, to become a 'facilitator of learning' (as the government now likes to call them). The students who graduate with the best marks from university should have the option of signing up to be a teacher for a maximum of, let's say, four years. With decent pay, and none of this training rubbish. This way, there is a constant influx of fresh ideas being brought into schools by the most intelligent people - dear lord, if that doesn't inspire children then nothing will. Throw out the curriculum but set loose goals. Children should be able to read and write and perform such and such mathematical manouveres by a certain age, and beyond that, a little bit of freedom for the teacher. Why force all history teachers to plod through the same period time and time again - as long as the child knows something about history and is interested, well, isn't that preferable? And while we're at it, throw out this obsession with 'make learning fun'. I am by no means advocating that angle. It is patronising and pointless. My niece recently experienced 'Africa Week' that included her having to purchase one of those Make Poverty History wrist-bands, and tour the supermarket looking for Fair Trade Food. Additionally, they sat in a straw hut for a day at school. If you can't see how wrong that is, there is no way I can explain it to you...
Well, there we go. I think I solved the crisis. The children who have parents who are rich enough to afford to send them to private school? So what, send them. I have the government cutting out all that pointless spending on endless text books that are never read, chairs and tables that are damaged, fancy 'interactive white-boards' or whatever they have these days. Pen, paper, and inspiration. The savings can go on sports facilities and better libraries, which means the private schools wont have that many advantages anyway.
Dear me, perhaps I should send my blog address to Mr Blair himself.
The problem in England is that the majority of new teachers are basically really rather useless. They are the ones who didn't quite make the grade in university, can't work out what to do with themselves, and are drawn in by the offer of £6000 just to complete a teacher's course. We thus end up with people entering the classroom who never enjoyed work themselves, never tried particularly hard, and even if they did, didn't really get very far at all. What use is that to a budding Einstein?? Teachers are basically so darn thick these days that the government has had to come up with grand new methods of teaching - so that the TEACHER can understand what is going on, never mind the kid. Additionally, there is no space for any flair or originality that a teacher might possibly have had a hope in hell of bringing to a classroom, as every hour of every day is carefully planned by some idiot in Whitehall who clearly hasn't a clue. I bet Waterstones and Co. love it: they can just order the syllabus and then stock their shelves with the relevant guides as parents, in last minute essay-panics (yes - parents, kids rarely do their own work these days), charge around for some additional info.
And now everybody is up in arms about 'selection' by some schools. Here is what should happen: every child should take an exam at eleven years old, and the best ones get grouped together in one school, and the worst ones in another. This is not to say that the 'thick kids' are lumped up - it just means some of them take longer to learn than the brighter ones who did better in the exams. It is totally unfair to force the bright sparks to work at the pace of the slow ones, as all that can possibly be created is a bunch of mediocre students. Any enthusiasm the intelligent children had at the beginning of their academic career is knocked out of them by endless repetition and extreme boredom being forced upon them. This is the fault of the teachers, the schools, and that damn curriculum.
What should happen is: teaching should be made a prestigious profession. It should be an honour, not a last resort, to become a 'facilitator of learning' (as the government now likes to call them). The students who graduate with the best marks from university should have the option of signing up to be a teacher for a maximum of, let's say, four years. With decent pay, and none of this training rubbish. This way, there is a constant influx of fresh ideas being brought into schools by the most intelligent people - dear lord, if that doesn't inspire children then nothing will. Throw out the curriculum but set loose goals. Children should be able to read and write and perform such and such mathematical manouveres by a certain age, and beyond that, a little bit of freedom for the teacher. Why force all history teachers to plod through the same period time and time again - as long as the child knows something about history and is interested, well, isn't that preferable? And while we're at it, throw out this obsession with 'make learning fun'. I am by no means advocating that angle. It is patronising and pointless. My niece recently experienced 'Africa Week' that included her having to purchase one of those Make Poverty History wrist-bands, and tour the supermarket looking for Fair Trade Food. Additionally, they sat in a straw hut for a day at school. If you can't see how wrong that is, there is no way I can explain it to you...
Well, there we go. I think I solved the crisis. The children who have parents who are rich enough to afford to send them to private school? So what, send them. I have the government cutting out all that pointless spending on endless text books that are never read, chairs and tables that are damaged, fancy 'interactive white-boards' or whatever they have these days. Pen, paper, and inspiration. The savings can go on sports facilities and better libraries, which means the private schools wont have that many advantages anyway.
Dear me, perhaps I should send my blog address to Mr Blair himself.
Monday, February 06, 2006
Coffee Queues, and a brief pre-Valentine's warm-up rant
I met a friend for coffee this afternoon, and I jest not when I say that it took considerably longer to acquire the brewed beans than it did to consume them. Blackwells (to name and shame) has contained within a notoriously busy coffee shop, and you'd have thought that on a Sunday they would manage to have more than two members of staff available, one whose mastery of the English language was so appalling she eventually quit taking orders and resorted to being in charge of Emptying The Dish Washer. This whole 'coffee culture' we have going on, apparently something to assist in making the average human being more sociable but, in my view, achieving the opposite effect. Whereas in previous days a woman would wander around to her friend's house to have a cosy chat in the parlour over a pot of tea, where one's intimate thoughts can be discussed in such a safe haven, we now launch ourselves into the bustle of a cafe where we can be overheard, 'checked out', and generally be 'moved on' if we spend too long clogging up the place. How is this positive? How? I'm not personally a coffee-drinker, but I understand from those better informed that the genuine Coffee Appreciator would never set foot in the likes of Starbucks unless dragged kicking and screaming. So why do we do it? Because we're expected to? It gets us through the day? Honestly, it is a ghastly, impersonal experience that seems wholly unnecessary to me.
Moving onto my first rant of the season regarding Valentine's Day (I predict many more to come). I detest the fact that virtually every shop I enter right now immediately welcomes me with some suitably hideous display of hearts, roses and - inexplicably - teddy bears, all with ridiculously unnecessary price tags just to crank my blood pressure that little bit higher. Valentine's Day is commercialised hell, as good a marketing scam as the 'coffee catch-up chat' now I come to think about it. Yes, I know what you're all thinking: bitter Jane, disliking Valentine's because once more the day looms large ahead of her without a hope in hell of being, oh I don't know, whisked off to Paris. It isn't that (and nor is it that I'm generally a practical sort of lass on occasions like this, and mid-week dashes at ridiculously over-inflated prices don't fit in with work schedules anyway), it is just that I hate the way it is thrust in my face. Catch 22 situation: if you don't have a Valentine, then for an entire day you are basically a social pariah, and if you do then you are forced by the cursed media to remortgage your house in order to afford an appropriate volume of gifts.
Seriously, the wrapping paper from the Christmas presents is still in the bin...
The one positive: at least I can be fairly sure to get rapid service in a coffee shop on Valentine's Day, as everybody will be focussing on Getting Ready To Go To Dinner. That is, assuming that the girl serving me doesn't have her mind equally as distracted and does manage to acknowledge my existence.
Moving onto my first rant of the season regarding Valentine's Day (I predict many more to come). I detest the fact that virtually every shop I enter right now immediately welcomes me with some suitably hideous display of hearts, roses and - inexplicably - teddy bears, all with ridiculously unnecessary price tags just to crank my blood pressure that little bit higher. Valentine's Day is commercialised hell, as good a marketing scam as the 'coffee catch-up chat' now I come to think about it. Yes, I know what you're all thinking: bitter Jane, disliking Valentine's because once more the day looms large ahead of her without a hope in hell of being, oh I don't know, whisked off to Paris. It isn't that (and nor is it that I'm generally a practical sort of lass on occasions like this, and mid-week dashes at ridiculously over-inflated prices don't fit in with work schedules anyway), it is just that I hate the way it is thrust in my face. Catch 22 situation: if you don't have a Valentine, then for an entire day you are basically a social pariah, and if you do then you are forced by the cursed media to remortgage your house in order to afford an appropriate volume of gifts.
Seriously, the wrapping paper from the Christmas presents is still in the bin...
The one positive: at least I can be fairly sure to get rapid service in a coffee shop on Valentine's Day, as everybody will be focussing on Getting Ready To Go To Dinner. That is, assuming that the girl serving me doesn't have her mind equally as distracted and does manage to acknowledge my existence.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
A possible return to Buenos Aires?
(Photo: Opera Bay (club), Buenos Aires). Yes, I'm all fired up with enthusiasm for my latest slightly demented scheme. A few months ago, I read somewhere that properties in Bulgaria are remarkably cheap, and subsequently spent an afternoon happily hopping about the internet in pursuit of the idyllic abode. Indeed, for a mere fifteen thousand pounds, one can have a home in the mountains that is not unlike pictures frequently seen on the front of chocolate boxes (albeit with a decided lack of functioning bathroom, but all fixable). In one of my inspirational flashes yesterday, I suddenly realised that hang on - I don't actually have to get a job when I finish university in June, nor do I need to scrabble around applying for funded Phd placements. I could invest my time, brains and energies in a far more worthwhile and productive project: buy a property in Bulgaria, sit around in it for a few years, and then sell it at a profit. Flawless.
This plan obviously rapidly developed to me living in a suitably sumptuous villa on Capri, but I managed to reign myself in and think logically about this. I don't want a job - not your ordinary 9 til 5 office-oriented job, nor can I see myself working as a 'landscape gardener', joyfully embracing the outdoors and associated elements. Neither am I desperate to launch myself into the loving arms of academia, where I will shuffle dejectedly from conference hall to conference hall, raising my head briefly to try to inspire a group of undergrads who care even less about Chaucer and Chekhov than I do. Obviously, I need to find a third alternative (a realistic one - I'm guessing that 'winning the lottery' and 'marrying rich' aren't really that likely). Investing my money - and a portion of some of my relatives' bank accounts - in an apartment in Buenos Aires is absolutely the best idea to date. I get to live in what is simply the most awesome city in the world, surrounded by delectable people, and an entire continent begging for me to explore further.
And before you start to turn your nose up, dear reader, and complain about such and such - remember this, you could get free accommodation out of me. So be nice. Trust me on this one, Buenos Aires is absolutely worth it.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Pointless research (and random pic of me and pals in Amazon)
The BBC website today is informing me that scientists have discovered the world's smallest fish. Apparently they're particularly pleased as stocks seem to be dwindling (due to all the horrible things humans are busy doing to the planet) and maybe we'll be able to save this creature from extinction. A few questions are posed by the study: a, who the hell funded it, b, how do we know its the world's smallest fish if we haven't found 'em all yet?, c, why on earth would I care if a fish I never knew about until today becomes extinct? Dammit, I wont be able to show my grandchildren the fascinating sight of a 7.9mm long fish. Somehow, I think they'll cope.
Which led me to thinking about all the totally pointless research currently going on out there. Surely in many areas of study we have reached Information Capacity - for example (choosing examples from my field to limit the potential number of arguments from readers), Jane Austen, poor lady, has been Done To Death. There is no more to be said about her or her books. And frankly, why would we want to? Yet I can guarantee that somewhere out there, some poor sod of a Phd student is desperately seeking originality within the arena of Jane A's criticism. Surely this is merely research for the sake of research? Why can't we focus on a few biggies, get all these doctoral students doing something useful - y'know, cures for cancer, that kind of thing. And simultaneously, we can have a bunch of them working out what the heck to do with the resultant increased population.
Trying to come up with Original Thinking in my field is becoming increasingly difficult. The trick is basically to take a theoretical viewpoint and a novelist that haven't been combined before and, well, mash them up in the form of an extended essay. Ignore that approximately three other people in the world will read it (the poor sod delegated with job of marking it, the second marker and, of course, your mother), and getting through the four years shouldn't be so bad.
Ultimately, it really is all a total waste of time though. Saying that, I'll probably end up doing a Phd one day. If only because I want the free upgrades on flights that come with having 'doctor' before my name.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Dating Hints and Tips
A friend has suggested I head forth to Birmingham in a few weeks to attend a 'Singles Event'. I would like to point out that I have never graced such a place with my presence, and to do so would be merely out of speculative interest rather than because I am - yes, I'm saying it - That Desperate. Honestly, if I'm ever reduced to actually going to these events with the serious intent of finding a guy, you have my permission to hunt me down and shoot me.
Some will regard that as an overly unsympathetic attitude towards the poor sods who genuinely need assistance in the ol' Dating Department (and frankly enough have commented of late that I do to make me begin to think about worrying. Four years to go and I'll be a Speed-Dating Addict, I'm sure, retracting all my negative barbs in favour of remarks along the lines of, 'it is refreshing and scintillating, an opportunity to meet a diverse range of characters.' Hah).
Anyway, I'm diverting from the main point of this post. Which was to analyse - and mock, of course - half of the 'dating tips' provided by these, well, dating companies. I can't believe there are groups actually making money out of the misery of singletons, but there we have it. Dog eat dog world in which we live. 'You are single - must be something wrong with you. Come get a date! And here is how...'
1. 'To be very approachable women should stand with their feet no farther than 6 inches apart with toes pointed slightly inward'. Dammit, that is where I've been going wrong. Think I allowed my clodhoppers to stray more than seven inches apart on occasion (banish those dodgy thoughts all of you), and pointed inward? With no intention of offence here but doubtless causing it somewhere, I wasn't aware that looking like a retard was attractive.
2. 'Studies show that men associate the scents of cinnamon and vanilla with love. To make the scents work for you, try baking some ready-made cinnamon rolls about an hour before your date arrives'. I am genuinely curious to know how many women read this and then rushed out to their local Asda to purchase the necessary comestibles.
3. This is from a guide men can purchase that assures them 'any man can get any girl'. The whole thing is compiled implying a relationship is the goalpost but: 'How to get into one-night stands with ease, and get out of them even easier, should you need to - without anyone getting hurt.' A woman has created this masterpiece, apparently. I am unable to comment due to being in state of shock.
4. 'Have a good think about what your dating goals are and timescales. Do you see yourself married within 2 years? If you do then approach dating accordingly. ' How on earth can you 'see yourself married within 2 years' when, by the sound of things, you aren't presently dating anybody?? Essentially, this tip ascribes to the view that people are merely commodities and only have to fulfill a few essential roles (typically: attractive, intelligent, GSOH) (Good Sense Of Humour to those of you untrained in the mystifying language of singles ads). Wow.
I could go on but it is thoroughly disheartening looking through all the websites. I know people who have rejected others because 'she is pretty but she didn't go to university' (obviously, only intelligent people go to university. Come on, who thought otherwise?). People who gave up the whole thing because 'she doesn't have the same taste in music'. Couples who broke up because the guy 'looked at other girls the wrong way'. Which begs the question, is there a right way? If the guy looked in total disgust at all other females, surely that would be rude, embarrassing, and grounds on which to register a complaint leading to breaking up.
I've been accused myself of being overly fussy. Personally, I see nothing wrong in rejecting someone because either a, they have no interest in me other than as a sex object, b, they think that getting battered in a nightclub equates to a Good Night Out or c, they make endless sweet remarks like 'I'm so proud to be seen out with you' while forgetting the fact that I would rather slit my own wrists than head forth into the night with them again.
Anyhow. Next time you see a six footer standing in the middle of the room (demonstrates confidence), wearing an approachable smile (not fixed grin, of course), clad in dusky pink (to bring out my skin tone) and scented with vanilla (to attract all men within a ten mile radius), nodding her head in a feminine but firm way (indicates she might be remotely interested in what you are saying) and of course, constantly reassessing the distance between shoes - that could well be me. On the other hand, it could be a rather sad individual with the personality of a tube of toothpaste. Your call.
Some will regard that as an overly unsympathetic attitude towards the poor sods who genuinely need assistance in the ol' Dating Department (and frankly enough have commented of late that I do to make me begin to think about worrying. Four years to go and I'll be a Speed-Dating Addict, I'm sure, retracting all my negative barbs in favour of remarks along the lines of, 'it is refreshing and scintillating, an opportunity to meet a diverse range of characters.' Hah).
Anyway, I'm diverting from the main point of this post. Which was to analyse - and mock, of course - half of the 'dating tips' provided by these, well, dating companies. I can't believe there are groups actually making money out of the misery of singletons, but there we have it. Dog eat dog world in which we live. 'You are single - must be something wrong with you. Come get a date! And here is how...'
1. 'To be very approachable women should stand with their feet no farther than 6 inches apart with toes pointed slightly inward'. Dammit, that is where I've been going wrong. Think I allowed my clodhoppers to stray more than seven inches apart on occasion (banish those dodgy thoughts all of you), and pointed inward? With no intention of offence here but doubtless causing it somewhere, I wasn't aware that looking like a retard was attractive.
2. 'Studies show that men associate the scents of cinnamon and vanilla with love. To make the scents work for you, try baking some ready-made cinnamon rolls about an hour before your date arrives'. I am genuinely curious to know how many women read this and then rushed out to their local Asda to purchase the necessary comestibles.
3. This is from a guide men can purchase that assures them 'any man can get any girl'. The whole thing is compiled implying a relationship is the goalpost but: 'How to get into one-night stands with ease, and get out of them even easier, should you need to - without anyone getting hurt.' A woman has created this masterpiece, apparently. I am unable to comment due to being in state of shock.
4. 'Have a good think about what your dating goals are and timescales. Do you see yourself married within 2 years? If you do then approach dating accordingly. ' How on earth can you 'see yourself married within 2 years' when, by the sound of things, you aren't presently dating anybody?? Essentially, this tip ascribes to the view that people are merely commodities and only have to fulfill a few essential roles (typically: attractive, intelligent, GSOH) (Good Sense Of Humour to those of you untrained in the mystifying language of singles ads). Wow.
I could go on but it is thoroughly disheartening looking through all the websites. I know people who have rejected others because 'she is pretty but she didn't go to university' (obviously, only intelligent people go to university. Come on, who thought otherwise?). People who gave up the whole thing because 'she doesn't have the same taste in music'. Couples who broke up because the guy 'looked at other girls the wrong way'. Which begs the question, is there a right way? If the guy looked in total disgust at all other females, surely that would be rude, embarrassing, and grounds on which to register a complaint leading to breaking up.
I've been accused myself of being overly fussy. Personally, I see nothing wrong in rejecting someone because either a, they have no interest in me other than as a sex object, b, they think that getting battered in a nightclub equates to a Good Night Out or c, they make endless sweet remarks like 'I'm so proud to be seen out with you' while forgetting the fact that I would rather slit my own wrists than head forth into the night with them again.
Anyhow. Next time you see a six footer standing in the middle of the room (demonstrates confidence), wearing an approachable smile (not fixed grin, of course), clad in dusky pink (to bring out my skin tone) and scented with vanilla (to attract all men within a ten mile radius), nodding her head in a feminine but firm way (indicates she might be remotely interested in what you are saying) and of course, constantly reassessing the distance between shoes - that could well be me. On the other hand, it could be a rather sad individual with the personality of a tube of toothpaste. Your call.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
I rule. And it is official.
I would like to direct all of you towards a particular website:
www.coffeeaddictkat.blogspot.com
And check out the posting from 10th January 2006. Me? Humble? Good God, where did you get that idea from.
www.coffeeaddictkat.blogspot.com
And check out the posting from 10th January 2006. Me? Humble? Good God, where did you get that idea from.
Monday, January 09, 2006
The Meaning of Life
In one of those tempers today which means my mood has been oscillating between 'wow, isn't the world fantastic, let us all dance forever through fields of suitably waving daffodils' and then crashing towards, 'dammit, I want to sit on a grave surrounded by ravens with the wind making the trees creak above me.' I think this is partly due to my actually sitting down and doing some serious work today - principally because it finally reached the point of being non optional. I simultaneously had the great realisation that weh hey, I had the will power to do it and (honestly, from God knows where) the interest to continue, along with the thought that I really should have done considerably more work than I already have and how far behind I am. Think I haven't left it so late I can't catch up... Hope.
Anyhow, this led to a few moments of brief contemplation (didn't have time to indulge in hours of thinking time) as to why I was doing the work in the first place. Which is presumably so that one day I can get a job I find interesting and that pays enough to put a roof over my head and books on my shelves. What would make me happy? It seems to change on a daily basis. Thanks be, I have reached the realisation at a wonderfully young age that happiness is not to be found in another person - I have saved myself years of heartache and pointless romances. Some Swedish scientists recently concluded that the root of happiness is working towards (but not necessarily achieving) a particular goal, and come to think of it they are probably right. Years ago, I was given a book in which to write resolutions: 'These things I'll do...'. There is a space to write a goal, and underneath a box to fill in with date of completion and some anecdote to go alongside. Flicking through it, I'm quite impressed with myself actually with my choice of goals. Each one I've entered has been thought through, and the few that I've achieved so far I can remember filling in that box and, well, I was pretty darn happy I can tell you.
I don't profess to know what the Meaning of Life actually is. I know it has nothing to do with money or fast cars, large families and larger houses. I know the possession of 'things' has never meant much to me - beyond books, but I classify them separately, and any pleasure I get from those is rather from the knowledge within than from the physical book itself. But I do know that something that had been somewhat dormant in me for a while came back to life today as I pored over complex psychoanalytic concepts in the Social Sciences Library, seated on an uncomfortable vermilion seat in a decidedly freezing room, looking out on a grey and dismal day. There are very few things - or people - one can rely on in this world, but I was reacquainted with the most trustworthy person I know today: me. I was a little wary of 'me' for a while and tried and tested a variety of alternatives. For those of you reading this and thinking, 'God, she's finally cracked up', well, you don't understand. 'To thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' ('Hamlet', Shakespeare).
D H Lawrence, 'What would you fight for?'
I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.
I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.
Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all depends whether I found them worth fighting for.
The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.
Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.
And I must say, I am often worsted.
Anyhow, this led to a few moments of brief contemplation (didn't have time to indulge in hours of thinking time) as to why I was doing the work in the first place. Which is presumably so that one day I can get a job I find interesting and that pays enough to put a roof over my head and books on my shelves. What would make me happy? It seems to change on a daily basis. Thanks be, I have reached the realisation at a wonderfully young age that happiness is not to be found in another person - I have saved myself years of heartache and pointless romances. Some Swedish scientists recently concluded that the root of happiness is working towards (but not necessarily achieving) a particular goal, and come to think of it they are probably right. Years ago, I was given a book in which to write resolutions: 'These things I'll do...'. There is a space to write a goal, and underneath a box to fill in with date of completion and some anecdote to go alongside. Flicking through it, I'm quite impressed with myself actually with my choice of goals. Each one I've entered has been thought through, and the few that I've achieved so far I can remember filling in that box and, well, I was pretty darn happy I can tell you.
I don't profess to know what the Meaning of Life actually is. I know it has nothing to do with money or fast cars, large families and larger houses. I know the possession of 'things' has never meant much to me - beyond books, but I classify them separately, and any pleasure I get from those is rather from the knowledge within than from the physical book itself. But I do know that something that had been somewhat dormant in me for a while came back to life today as I pored over complex psychoanalytic concepts in the Social Sciences Library, seated on an uncomfortable vermilion seat in a decidedly freezing room, looking out on a grey and dismal day. There are very few things - or people - one can rely on in this world, but I was reacquainted with the most trustworthy person I know today: me. I was a little wary of 'me' for a while and tried and tested a variety of alternatives. For those of you reading this and thinking, 'God, she's finally cracked up', well, you don't understand. 'To thine own self be true and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.' ('Hamlet', Shakespeare).
D H Lawrence, 'What would you fight for?'
I am not sure I would always fight for my life.
Life might not be worth fighting for.
I am not sure I would always fight for my wife.
A wife isn't always worth fighting for.
Nor my children, nor my country, nor my fellow-men.
It all depends whether I found them worth fighting for.
The only thing men invariably fight for
Is their money. But I doubt if I'd fight for mine, anyhow
not to shed a lot of blood over it.
Yet one thing I do fight for, tooth and nail, all the time.
And that is my bit of inward peace, where I am at one
with myself.
And I must say, I am often worsted.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
On Planes and Post
I think it is fairly safe to say that I have a wide range of experience with flights. I've ranted about a few on here before, but decided after recent events that I'd sum up a few generalised complaints. I am fed up with variable carry-on baggage rules - given that the vast majority of planes are a Boeing 737 or whatever that other thing is - AirBus or something - I think the overhead lockers are going to be remarkably similar, thus able to support similar weights. Why is it I can take 10kg of carry-on with Ryanair, yet for 'safety measures' only 5kg with Virgin Atlantic? Where is the logic? And why is it I constantly see people with legs about half the length of mine nestled comfortably into exit row seats, while I need to apply the vaseline to my knees and ease my way into the two inch gap between the standard seats? To add to my usual list of grievances, yesterday I had to wait in an unnecessarily slow moving queue to have my passport checked upon arrival. What is all this rubbish about not having to fly with passport but using 'alternative forms of ID' - it just means that queues build up as the poor sod trying to establish you are who you say you are is running his finger up and down the long list of 'acceptable ID alternatives.' Final complaint (for now): good God, but they make you walk miles in airports. The worst I think was Dallas, where - I jest not - it took me close on an hour to walk to my gate. At a brisk pace. Carrying all my luggage. Do you realise this is approximately, at a guess, THREE MILES? And during that three miles, there was not a single cash point or banking office where I could withdraw American dollars and thus purchase some of the ghastly food options available to me. Much as I find it endlessly amusing to watch lardy people 'sprinting' towards their gate, I feel for them. We have to walk too far, and it is frankly bloody ridiculous.
A brief addition to all this: why can't the Royal Mail just deliver my post? Why? I have missed multiple parcels and letters that just never arrive anywhere, or are returned to sender with a sticker informing them that I am 'no longer at this address.' I think I worked out half the problem the other day: we received a parcel for somebody ten doors up. The postal workers are clearly illiterate. Dammit, but this makes me so mad. My gran always said that 'if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well'. Precisely. Surely there should be a law incorporating this idea somewhere...
A brief addition to all this: why can't the Royal Mail just deliver my post? Why? I have missed multiple parcels and letters that just never arrive anywhere, or are returned to sender with a sticker informing them that I am 'no longer at this address.' I think I worked out half the problem the other day: we received a parcel for somebody ten doors up. The postal workers are clearly illiterate. Dammit, but this makes me so mad. My gran always said that 'if a job is worth doing, it is worth doing well'. Precisely. Surely there should be a law incorporating this idea somewhere...
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