The Stresses and Strains of Sharing a Bed

Fair enough, this isn't so much a rant as a general observation on an area that can potentially lead to so many problems it is ridiculous. Scenario 1- friend comes round to visit you, between you a bottle of wine disappears, friend can't drive home, friend needs somewhere to sleep. No spare bedding and all that, so friend hops into bed with you. Two females? That's fine. But as soon as is a guy, there are problems. Scenario 1A - guy is somebody's boyfriend. If their girlfriend finds out about sharing bed, even if you both passed out through alcohol and snored in entirely seperate slumbers for the night, you are both in trouble. Scenario 1B - guy is single. Guy therefore thinks he stands a chance with you, due to presence of contents of bottle of wine inside him, and you therefore spend entire night panicking that he'll make some sort of move.
Scenario 1B can of course be broken down further - I mean, if you are single then it isn't such a bad deal (provided the guy is not total munter). But if you have boyfriend, then spend entire night panicking about any contact being made. Not that I have a boyfriend as such - treading in dangerous water here so will escape - but I did recently pass a night wide awake, didn't get a wink of sleep, because was terrified would either a, have unwelcome contact made by guy who was in my bed or b, I would wake up in night and think 'oh, that is _____' and turn over, pulling them to me. Therefore ended up in foul mood due to tiredness and absolutely shattered when said non-boyfriend-guy arrived the next night, thus arousing suspicions and generally being too tired to care who was in my bed anyway.
Am heading to London in a week and will be staying with a guy for two days who in the past has found excuse to approach me, and no, I'm not interested. Exchange of emails implies my sleeping there will require my being in same bed. I am already sweating gallons and panicking about this, and the thought is passing through my mind to spend a small fortune on a hotel room for myself instead.
I guess it all comes down to trust, doesn't it. Ah, that glorious bond which ties the dodgiest of relationships together. It is SO HARD to have to erase all the times that mean you don't trust one particular guy and not transfer them to a new guy; in fact, I just can't. I'm useless at it. And in all honesty, dear reader, I'm slightly concerned this could mean I end up losing someone before anything has really gotten started. Sigh. Let's all just get single beds and be done with it.

A few 'Shout Outs', and baths for oldies

Have had an extremely crazy day, filled with moments of hating most of the world followed closely by thinking everything is fantastic. (Are these symptoms of manic-depression?!). Anyhow, would just like to make a few shout-outs to people today. And in no particular order we have...
Sameena. Chica, you rock. Sam is and always will be, no doubt, one of the least successful rowers of all time (sorry girl, but its true), on occasion can be fantastically 'up herself', but as a general rule simply rocks. At uni she worked way too hard - well, she actually did work which from my view is doing a tad too much - and still managed to fit in hours at the gym each day. She is possibly the greatest ego-boost on the planet and this shout out is to say thank you so much for keeping me a version of sane, particularly over the last few weeks. Although I still haven't forgiven you for trying to drag me into Ann Summers...
Niall. Irish accent of course to die for. In addition, total charmer who manages to make me smile however cheesed off with the world I am. Has ability to talk put up with hours of MSN ranting, and Jane in the depths of depression. Can't believe am actually becoming one of those cheesy people who is being converted to the concept that 'friends make the world go round' but Niall is certainly dragging me round to that way of thinking. Cheers, m'dear.
Steph. Final one. As anybody who knows her will say within the first sentence of a description, she is an absolute lunatic. With a scary degree of German-drive and determination, she generally scares the crap out of pretty much anyone and is thus highly suited to her future lawyer-profession. Steph is possibly the ultimate person to complain to about guys, us both being massively unsuccessful in our own special ways. Don't get to see you often enough, girl, but next time we meet up we have a date in a double. (Non rowers, ignore that).

SO. Those three sprung to mind because today they've been responsible in entirely seperate ways for my not throwing myself off a cliff. Not that this would necessarily be a bad thing - yes, I heard that thought filter through your minds...

On a totally different note. 'Bath Knight'. I mean, come on, who came up with the concept that it would be a good idea to put a door in a bath? Everybody knows you run the hot tap first, then the cold to bring to right level - old person using fancy bath may not fall over getting in or out, but will receive first degree burns from sitting in boiling water for ages while bath fills. Does bring beautiful image of slightly doddery oldie filling the bath THEN opening the door to get in... Why, out of interest, can they not cope with showers? Its a mystery.

Builders

For the last few days, I've been woken at the crack of dawn by work-men. Who are supposedly sorting out a leaking window but who arguably spend more of their time drinking cups of tea, shaking their heads making tutting sounds, and telling me they're just 'popping off to get another tool' then returning two hours later. On a general basis, I object to workmen in that they have no respect whatsoever for your belongings - 'bit of plastering wont make that much mess, luv', as I chokingly make my way to the nearest exit - and leave the place looking like a bombsite, however small the job in the first place. Additionally, being female, I actually don't have a clue what they're doing. 'Oh, a bit of sponge filler? That stops water, does it?' And there was I thinking sponges sat around on the bottom of the sea or on the edge of my bath. And a 'lead tray'... well, sounds useful, I guess. But did they have to un-build half the end wall in order to insert said tray? Seems somewhat drastic to me.
And after all that, you get a whopping great bill that you have no choice but to pay. All this because the person who built the sodding house in the first place didn't bother to put the lintel in properly and the subsequent owners had patch jobs done that essentially made the whole thing worse. In cases such as these, it should be tracked back to that original builder and he should damn well have to pay up himself. Why the poor sod who happens to have bought the property in good faith and then ends up shelling thousands for shoddy workmanship?
A few other issues this house has had:
1. The washing machine wasn't initially connected correctly, result being that it leaked under the floor for months before I finally noticed water seeping between the cracks on the laminated floor. Which resulted in hell of having to have that replaced - all because a tap wasn't tightened.
2. The shed door now cannot be locked, because the idiot who constructed it initially couldn't be bothered to do everything up properly so now it is leaning sideways at an alarming angle and the padlock just doesn't ever line up. Have moved padlock four times on shed now and as keeps slipping more, still doesn't bolt.
3. Leaking shower. Surely SURELY when someone installs a shower they can think to ensure that water stays in the shower rather than goes all over the damn place. Result: more laminate flooring having to be replaced and an entire new shower fitted.
Am seriously considering taking a course in basic construction/maintenance so that can do these darn jobs myself. But that doesn't work, does it? Because there isn't TIME to do everything. So ultimately unless you know someone in the business, you are going to get screwed. Non optional.
My other conclusion is: any workmen out there looking for a wife? I'm available. And if you screw up our house you will incur the wrath of Jane. Yeah - that's not good.

Motorway Nightmares

Plymouth - Lancaster, simple enough. A38, M5, M6. Motorway, essentially, all the way. Surely mid-week, leave at a decent hour in the morning (by anybody's standards, not just mine), it should be a trouble-free amble, right? Bearing this in mind, and the fact am making good time, I decide to hop off at Stafford to see friend there (shout out to John here) and leave with large pile of blank DVDs - that I am informed are 'poor quality' but who cares provided they do the trick. Anyhow, digressing.
Saunter casually back onto the motorway, get about 400yds before hitting a wall of traffic. Which I proceeded to sit in for five hours - FIVE HOURS - on, just to make life better, the nicest day of the year. This was all due to the fact a lorry over-turned. Now, my point is - this couldn't happen anywhere but in the UK. Surely. Have one minor problem and the whole traffic system comes to a complete standstill. Take the States, for example. Huge freeways, endless options - not an expert, but can't see them getting tailbacks like this. We are clearly far too small a country with too many cars and, in my opinion, not enough roads. And to hear some Green Party lunatic going on about, 'we have proof that more roads leads to more traffic' is just ridiculous. How many people trog along one day, see a shiny new bit of tarmac, and exclaim that good God, they need a car? I mean, seriously.
Oh yes, one other thing. For some obscure reason in the slow-moving traffic my speedometer (and, oh damn, milometer) died. Darn annoying. Had to pay fifty quid for the privelege of being leered at on multiple occasions at the garage, and eventually getting the cable fixed. 'Men' (I use the term loosely) who work in garages should be kept in cages. Along with those who drink cups of tea on scaffolding all day - sorry, labourers - and taxi drivers who hang around in gangs. There is a vague element of comedy to having five guys peering into the bonnet of my Mini simply because when I arrived I was clad in a pair of figure-hugging jeans, but honestly. GROW UP. No wonder this country is full of depressed people. Jeez.

Tax Office

So I had one of those days where I decided to get all that boring crap out of the way - which included a two hour visit to the tax office. Worthy of a mention in that one guy actually lost the plot he'd been in the queue so long, walked over to the reception area, picked up enormous 20" monitor and hurled on floor before charging out, kicking glass out of door, and disappearing into the wilderness of Derriford. Office went crazy with shouts of, 'God, we need some help in here!' , females screeching, and one guy importantly snatching up the phone yelling, 'Get me the police!'. Too much excitement for one day.
Have had to endure hours of hold music, recorded messages, and people with a total inability to speak English. I'm all for employing those of non-English backgrounds, but dear God at least make sure they can speak our language. Example conversation: 'I want to cancel my mobile phone contract.'....'You want to complain about your contract?'...'No, I want to CANCEL my contract.'...'You can't do that.'...'Look, I know I can, I asked someone in a shop two days ago and they said I COULD.'....'Oh, you said CANCEL? Of course you can.'
JEEZ. At which point need to start requesting new phone as have hurled old one across the room.
Anyway, was all worth it in the end as discovered hidden stores in my bank account, uncashed cheques, and tax rebates really are worth all the hassle. Am celebrating getting everything done by going up North for a couple of weeks - see a few people, some more than others... Maybe even stick a blade in the Lune. Wow. Rowing. Not done that in ages. Beware ducklings, Jane is on the loose. (Beware ducklings, beware other rowers may be more apt). Will ensconse myself in Maidencroft for a fortnight, armed with multiple extremely tedious sounding books and attempt to develop an honest interest in Women's Studies. Any comments on how this is to be achieved would be appreciated (er - guys, keep it clean. Jeez).

Naval 'Do'

And I'm back, after enforced absence due to lack of internet access. Not entirely sure how I survived so long without being able to hop online but I'm here, shaking and withdrawn, but here. So anyway, I'll start on the 'good news'. Went to a full-on Naval Ball on Friday evening - theme was apparently 'round the world in eighty days' which essentially justified the organisers using any decoration from the last hundred years as all were going to be relevant in some way or other. Since I'm meant to rant, I will mention that the food was AWFUL. As vegetarian gluten-free, I'm obviously a damn picky eater and had requested this beforehand. 'Starter' consisted of an onion salad, which I managed to stagger through half of before rejecting in favour of an unseen main course. Which turned out to be a larger portion of the same onion salad. Given that I was eating in the second sitting and had had three hours of drinking time before then...
Yes well, nobody else was sober so its okay.
Despite being terrified beforehand that wasn't dressed to a suitable standard of ponciness, I think I passed that one. Did mean to take photos but was such a nervous wreck entirely forgot - D'OH. Since am potentially going to the even poncier centenary event in August, I will make note to get photos then.
Spent most of yesterday massively hungover entertaining my highly energetic seven year old niece. This is not recommended after about two hours sleep and more champagne than I care to remember.
Went to Oxford last week to check out future 'alma mater'. Nothing to complain about there.
Wish I'd thought of this years ago - create a website on which to rant, and then am presented with remarkably little to rant about. Did have a miniature rant with friend Ed this morning (the 'Man' referred to in coffeekat's blog if anyone is interested) regarding the useless nature of shop assistants in this country. Particularly hate it when you walk up to a group of them yabbering away about their social lives, you start to hover with clear intent to ask a question, and none of them deigns to acknowledge your existence. How to Cheese Jane Off in one easy move, that would be. Frequently sees me going, 'Oh for God's SAKE' and storming off, making it blatantly obvious one of them just missed a sale.
Returning to veggie/gluten free point. WHY DON'T AIRLINES OFFER THIS AS AN OPTION? One or the other, if I'm lucky. I say that because every time I book a flight my agent assures me that they have requested that and they never bloody have - which reminds me, must ring up to see what I'll be expected to consume on my flight to BA in a month.
GRR.
Oh good. A bit of a rant. Feel much better now :D

Insomnia

You only ever get insomnia, I find, when you have loads to do the next day. (I can see anyone who knows me raising an enquiring eyebrow at this point, strongly implying that the chances of me having anything to do are remarkably low). As a result of spending hours doing battle with idiot travel agents on the phone this morning and finally getting a flight booked to Buenos Aires in a few weeks, I now have multiple annoying niggling tasks to complete tomorrow (technically later today, but thinking like that just makes life complex).
1. Return overdue library books. Libraries are an awesome idea, except for this whole concept of 'fines'. There are some people - obviously including me - who are just incapable of remembering to return them on time. As a result, I have spent hundreds of pounds over the years on stupid fines. Why can't there be a compromise like... um... in future, you can only take out one book at a time. That would be a much better punishment, at least reducing future fines.
2. Change mobile phone tariff. Which knowing my sodding luck I wont be able to do for some obscure reason - there'll be some small print added to the contract, placed there by the company for the sole reason of cheesing me off.
3. Tidy the house. Since at the moment I'm staying in my Mother's house and she's returning in a couple of days. She probably knows I've lived by the settee for the last few days but doesn't really need the evidence of it.
4. I've no idea, I'm tired. I've forgotten. I should really have written these down earlier.
Maybe I should get one of those geeky dictaphone things and just talk into it whenever I have an idea. Seriously, surely you arent supposed to be my age - rapidly approaching 23, yikes - and not be able to remember stuff for more than five seconds. I've been known to call someone to specifically ask them something and by the time the ringing has stopped, I've forgotten the question. The line, 'if you can't remember it can't have been important' just doesn't work in relation to me.
Apologies going out to anybody tuning in for either a decent rant or at least some vaguely interesting viewpoint on something. Its nearly 2am, I didn't get much sleep last night, I'm basically only writing this so that I'd eventually reach a point of being totally shattered and fall asleep. Probably my laptop will slip from my bed at that time, smash on the floor, and today will just get worse.
Speaking of which, didn't rant about my awful experience in Boots today. (That would be a chemists). For one - and sorry guys, but its relevant - I hate buying 'women's stuff' at the best of times. You always end up with some spotty teenage lad who is so embarrassed and that makes you embarrassed... Anyway, I digress. So having armed self with suitable quantities of 'women's stuff' I stand in the queue to pay. Stupidly long queue, being a bank holiday. For some unknown reason, my contact lens takes the opportunity to step into the limelight and randomly fall out of my eye. Having attracted attention of entire queue by messing about with that for a few minutes (just so that EVERYONE knew what I was buying) , then finally make it to the front to hear that apparently my product was on a '3 for 2' special. Of course, one feels obliged to take advantage of this, which saw me charging to the other side of the store to collect my third item, skidding round the aisle and thus twisting my ankle. Hobbled back redder than I ever thought possible to confront the enraged queue and stuff change into pocket before gallopping out the door as best as one can with a throbbing ankle.
Note to self - never go back there.
I'm sorry, readers, I've developed rapidly into one of those amazingly boring bloggers who says sod all enlightening, interesting, or otherwise. Its late, I'm tired, I promise better things in a couple of days. Sigh - the responsibility that comes with a blog.

Remarkably little to rant about...

Firstly - who is Sideshow Bob?? Yes, I know he is from the Simpsons... but somebody actually READS this stuff?? Wow. If I'd known that, I'd have bothered to come online more often and update you, rant, rave, anything. In fact, over the last week I've had a load to rant about - principally job-oriented rants, that I'm sure most of the working population could relate to on multiple levels - but I've been in such a foul mood I haven't even felt able to rant. (Except by phone to various relatives, apologies go out to them).
Anyway, strange how when one thing goes well everything else falls into place. Having left Argentina at the end of January, I've spent every day since trying to work out how to get back there - and finally a solution has been offered to me. Straight after the Monaco Grand Prix on May 22nd, I'll be leaping onto a plane and hurling myself halfway round the planet to Buenos Aires for a couple of months. Ostensibly to work and do some research, but at a guess there will be multiple evenings involving considerably large quantities of vino...
So anybody staying at the Portal del Sur in Buenos Aires (you allowed to advertise on this thing??) at that time of year - look out for Jane returning to room 306. Yes, that is my name on the door, yes I did stay there so long I earned a name on a door in a hostel... Its a claim to fame, dammit. Don't knock it.
Life is good. Its the boat-race tomorrow that will see the annihilation of Cambridge by Oxford. I have nothing to rant about. Feel strangely empty. Maybe I'll sit here and fiddle with the colours on the screen or something. Apparently I can change them. Hmm. Get excited, dear reader.

Oxford

Ah, the irony... the day after I create a 'blog' (seriously, someone, confirm this terminology to me please) specifically designed to rant about the world at large, I get good news. Seriously good news. Oxford University have accepted me to study for a Masters in Women's Studies, starting October of this year. Why? No, I don't have any idea either - but I can't stop grinning and have the champagne all ready for tomorrow night. I'M GOING TO OXFORD! Good God. It hasn't sunk in at all. Am living in an alternative reality, am sure of it.
Am exhausted with this whole 'feeling happy' thing. Doesn't happen on this scale very regularly and to be honest, its quite knocked the wind out of my sails.
And on that note, I'm going to go fall asleep... Have suspicion am required to wake up horrendously early for the qualifying session of the Malaysian grand prix. Why can't the world just be flat, eh, and get rid of all these time-zone issues we have.
Weh hey - I managed to get a complaint in. My day is truly complete.

Intro Rant

If only because am still online... Okay, so I ambled along to update my Personal Profile (in other words, a form I can fill in that I write answers on I think to be accurate and everyone reads and goes 'yeah right, that isn't the Jane I know') and at one point am asked to put in my date of birth. Tell me, oh Americans, why do you insist on putting the darn MONTH first? Its ILLOGICAL. You build up from small to big to bigger... so from day to month to year. Jeez. Always damn well gets me on those daft forms have to fill in when entering your stupid country. That has to be the one good thing about flying into the UK:- get to walk into a country without waving a small book of paperwork and having my irises photographed. (Plural of iris, must look up. Iri? Irisi?).
Anyway - there you have it. More rants to come.

First Blogging. If that is the correct terminology.

So... I have a blog. Apparently. I get the feeling that what I type in here is going to end up appearing somewhere in the dark recesses of the internet... which means, what, anyone could read this? ANYONE? A few shout-outs therefore:
Potential stalkers:- I'm six feet tall and scary. Go away.
Potential employers:- I'm six feet tall, mostly leg, and prepared to wear short skirts.
Potential boyfriends:- Unless you're tall, dark and handsome, please do not apply for this demanding role.
Ex-employers:- Chances are, I mean every word of what I say on here...
Ex-friends:- I have the patience of a gnat on LSD. You should have known it, eh? And yup, chances are I mean every word of what I say on here...
Exes:- Hell yes, I mean what I write.
Think that covers enough groups for now. So I should probably stop writing for a minute and check that this is actually appearing where I think it is going to. I have a tendency to waste time, I know, but it really would be pointless my wittering away to thin air here. Doubtless I'll be back tomorrow - assuming I remember what on earth username and password I gave myself - and will introduce you to the art of ranting, Jane style. Sit back, take a deep breath, and prepare yourself to enter the diverse, exciting and eventful life (er - okay, sometimes just plain boring if I'm being honest) of Moi.