I have a confession to make. It is not a confession I ever thought I would make. Certainly not when I was being picked last for games throughout the entirety of my schooldays. Nor when I was paying to be a member of a gym for years at a time and only going once a month. Not even when I used to 'quite like' doing the Jane Fonda workout in the 80s. My confession is this:
I have turned into the kind of person who goes to the gym to make myself feel better.
Do you hear that sound? It's a kind of creaking, cracking sound that might be familiar from December of last year. It is the sound of something freezing over - in this case, it is the sound of hell freezing over.
Let me explain how I came to this conclusion. Yesterday evening, I was having a bit of a wobble. I was feeling January-ish (it's cold, it's dark, there's nothing much to look forward to); I'd had a bit of a tetchy conversation with my boss earlier in the day; I was, as ever, disappointed by the fact that I still hadn't won the Lottery on Saturday and thus couldn't give up work entirely. My other work colleagues seemed a bit strung out and down too. I suddenly really really missed all my friends. Usually, after a mildly trying day, I would've texted or emailed a couple of people and suggested a trip to the pub for a whinge over a bottle of wine, or a spontaenous visit to the cinema and then we'd have formulated a plan to do something fun and cheering in the next couple of weeks as well.
But up here, I haven't yet managed to accumulate a gaggle of friends who can be called upon at short notice to be, essentially, moaned at for an hour, whilst I pull myself out of a minor Slough of Despond. So instead of going home to watch TV and eat chocolate, I forced myself to go to the gym. I got changed, went to the loo, and had a bit of a cry whilst I was in there. Yeah, it was one of those days - all got a bit much, frankly. The internal conversation ran as follows:
Self-pitying Me: 'WHY did I decide to move to the opposite end of the country, removing myself entirely from all my family and friends?'
Rational Me: 'Because it seemed like a good idea to shake yourself out of all sorts of ruts'
SP Me: '[Sob] They weren't such bad ruts, were they?'
R Me: 'Um, well, no, not in the grand scheme of things. But aren't you, you know, kind of happy in general now? You know, with the lovely flat, and less stress at work, and not having to go on the Tube every day and worry about people blowing you up - stuff like that?'
SP Me: 'Well, yes, there is all that, but I miss going to the pub and having lots of people to suggest doing things with and the fact that I don't have to explain anything to my old friends, they just know and I am REALLY BORED OF WATCHING SHIT TELLY'
R Me: 'I don't think this is getting you anywhere fast. Dry your eyes, pet, and let's just go and flail about on a treadmill for a bit. You can lie when it asks you how old you are, if that'll make you feel better. Sweating and feeling tired will at least take your mind off all this while you're doing it'
SP Me: 'OK. Yes, you're right. I can always phone someone afterwards if I still feel crap'
R Me: 'Well done. Now, just hope that you don't bump into Cheerful James, or anyone else that you know, and have to confess that you're having a bit of a ladymoment'
I was filling up my water bottle when naturally, Cheerful James popped up at my shoulder, greeting me, bien sur, cheerfully, and then dragging me off to be introduced to someone. GAAH. Of course he's going to introduce me to someone when I have just been crying in the loo. He's been saying he wants me to have a session with a mate of his who is a 'biomechanics specialist' who will hopefully sort out my knackered left shoulder and my dodgy posture. And there he is. Man Mountain Gary, who is eleventy foot tall, must surely at some stage have been in the Marines, and looks as though he could crush me like a bug. He is also insanely good looking. I remind you once more, I am fresh from having a cry in the loos. I try to avoid looking at him, as he says that he'll email me to arrange an appointment. Having a red-eyed and now probably red-faced girl staring at you is probably less than ideal for insanely good looking man mountains. It is also cripplingly embarrassing when you are the red-eyed, red-faced girl in question. 'I hope he just assumes I'm having problems with the contact lenses that I don't actually wear', I thought, as I dashed off in search of a treadmill.
So, I assumed I'd force myself through twenty minutes or so of exercise, and then go home to carry on feeling miserable. But, dear reader, I managed a full hour of machines, weights and the like, and by the time I got home, I felt absolutely fine. Fine, I tell you! Albeit still hell bent on eating a large bowl of pasta with pesto and indulging in both Heat and that mad gypsy wedding programme on Channel 4. But yes, going to the gym, instead of being a horrible chore that I had to drag myself through had actually made me feel better.
When I moved here 6 months ago, one of the questions I was asked on my first night was whether I did any sport (by a very hearty bunch of people who were friends of the girl I was staying with). They'd just spent half an hour discussing whether or not one of them should buy a new bike, and if so, what sort of bike they should buy. I thought I was going to gnaw my own arm off with boredom. I said that my interests were largely sedentary and they all gazed at me, thoroughly perplexed. 'Why would you not want to play golf/tennis/squash and go running/cycling/kayaking during any available free moment?' I could feel them thinking. 'Because that sounds like horrible, hard work and I'd rather read a book or watch telly', I mentally replied.
Ironic, then, that I appear to have morphed into the kind of person who could give Davina McCall a run for her money in the gym-going stakes. If I manage to carry on for another 6 months, can I also have Davina's insanely shiny hair and presenting gig on The Biggest Loser? Because if there's no monetary value attached to this metamorphosis from sofa slug to Fully Bionic Human Being, then I've just crossed that invisible line. The one that marked me out as 'one of us' and has turned me into 'one of them' - the freaks who actually enjoy going to the gym and feel weird if they don't go for a couple of days. Which brings me perilously close to the danger zone in which I will suddenly wake up one day and think that taking up golf 'might be fun'.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Resolving to make no Resolutions
So, it's over halfway through January, which is another free Reason to be Cheerful. January is proving to be less boring than usual, as I've decided to give up on giving up booze (I usually spend the first month of every year booze-free as a penance for Christmas/New Year and a vague attempt to lose weight). Instead I've decided that, new life, new habits style - I think you're allowed to use that as a motivating force for the first year of a new life - I shall instead embrace booze. I've been treating myself to red wine at home of an evening, which is proving to be very pleasant.
It is also extremely nice not to feel browbeaten into some sort of punitive detox routine. Magazines and newspapers at this time of year are full to the brim with 'recipes' for juices (you don't need a recipe, you just squash all the fun bits out of anything you were planning to eat and then have to wash up a machine with 37 parts afterwards); exhortations to give up alcohol, caffeine, sugar, meat, dairy, wheat and anything else that's worth eating or drinking at this time of year, and replace them with green tea, pounding away on a treadmill and sweating in a sauna as a treat.
The reason I don't feel the need to do any of this, is that I was kind of doing it anyway before Christmas - well, bar the booze and the coffee, both of which remain mainstays, but the booze is less prevalent than it was when I lived in London. London life, in a rose-tinted way, now seemed to me to revolve round cocktails and wine in pubs and nice bars in a manner that suggested I was either a Sex and the City wannabe, or Jeffrey Bernard. That's not true, I never drank that much, but I really don't go out much here yet, so feel relatively teetotal.
But I've managed to cut right down on dairy (bar milk in the aforementioned coffee), mainly cut out wheat (it really doesn't agree with my digestion and is also on Cheerful James's Banned List) and was trying hard to avoid sugar. I don't very often eat meat, and am still scoffing salmon like a seal, so it was all going fine. Until the Great Carb Rebellion of Christmas and the dreaded Between Christmas and New Year Period, when seemingly all be(l)ts are off and it's a free for all. I threw myself with particularly wild abandon at the pannetone that appeared everywhere. One of my friends got given three for a Christmas party she hosted, one of which made it to mine at New Year.
I ate it with Bailey's in a bread and butter pudding (sugar, wheat, cream and booze - ticking all the boxes there). I had it toasted with butter for breakfast. I had big chunks of it just because it was there. Still there. Still not stale enough to justify throwing it away (wasteful). There was some exciting shop-bought custard that hadn't been eaten, so I had some of that with pannetone and prunes (surprisingly good). I probably would've made it into a duvet and slept under it if I could've.
But like many a holiday romance, mine has now ended. Now it is back to scrambled eggs for breakfast and salmon for lunch. It's back to pounding away at the gym, praying that Cheerful James will let me off another week of being weighed and measured. I was doing so well before Christmas that I very nearly awarded myself a Chufty Medal for Exercise - I'd managed to get down to something like 14.5% body fat (from 22.3% - ooh, STATS!) and had put on 7lb of muscle since the middle of September, for anyone who cares about such things. CJ is threatening to put 'before' and 'after' photos of me on the wall of the gym. I cannot express how utterly mortifying this would be. Surely that is the preserve of Biggest Loser types, who've lost 5 stone and gone from 'blimpishly fat' to a size 12? Rather than me, who's gone from a bit of a muffin top and arms devoid of any muscle or definition to losing half a stone and being able to get the lids off jam jars? It doesn't feel sufficiently inspirational to see a photo of me with a few wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment, next to a photo of me with fewer wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment.
Perhaps I embarked on the Great Carb Rebellion in order to avoid being on the wall of the gym and pointed at by punters thinking, 'Who's that girl, who clearly thinks she's better than she is?' Or perhaps I should just use one of my newly-muscled arms to punch James and tell him to find another former fatty to put on the wall. Yes, that sounds better. I've always meant to try boxing.
It is also extremely nice not to feel browbeaten into some sort of punitive detox routine. Magazines and newspapers at this time of year are full to the brim with 'recipes' for juices (you don't need a recipe, you just squash all the fun bits out of anything you were planning to eat and then have to wash up a machine with 37 parts afterwards); exhortations to give up alcohol, caffeine, sugar, meat, dairy, wheat and anything else that's worth eating or drinking at this time of year, and replace them with green tea, pounding away on a treadmill and sweating in a sauna as a treat.
The reason I don't feel the need to do any of this, is that I was kind of doing it anyway before Christmas - well, bar the booze and the coffee, both of which remain mainstays, but the booze is less prevalent than it was when I lived in London. London life, in a rose-tinted way, now seemed to me to revolve round cocktails and wine in pubs and nice bars in a manner that suggested I was either a Sex and the City wannabe, or Jeffrey Bernard. That's not true, I never drank that much, but I really don't go out much here yet, so feel relatively teetotal.
But I've managed to cut right down on dairy (bar milk in the aforementioned coffee), mainly cut out wheat (it really doesn't agree with my digestion and is also on Cheerful James's Banned List) and was trying hard to avoid sugar. I don't very often eat meat, and am still scoffing salmon like a seal, so it was all going fine. Until the Great Carb Rebellion of Christmas and the dreaded Between Christmas and New Year Period, when seemingly all be(l)ts are off and it's a free for all. I threw myself with particularly wild abandon at the pannetone that appeared everywhere. One of my friends got given three for a Christmas party she hosted, one of which made it to mine at New Year.
I ate it with Bailey's in a bread and butter pudding (sugar, wheat, cream and booze - ticking all the boxes there). I had it toasted with butter for breakfast. I had big chunks of it just because it was there. Still there. Still not stale enough to justify throwing it away (wasteful). There was some exciting shop-bought custard that hadn't been eaten, so I had some of that with pannetone and prunes (surprisingly good). I probably would've made it into a duvet and slept under it if I could've.
But like many a holiday romance, mine has now ended. Now it is back to scrambled eggs for breakfast and salmon for lunch. It's back to pounding away at the gym, praying that Cheerful James will let me off another week of being weighed and measured. I was doing so well before Christmas that I very nearly awarded myself a Chufty Medal for Exercise - I'd managed to get down to something like 14.5% body fat (from 22.3% - ooh, STATS!) and had put on 7lb of muscle since the middle of September, for anyone who cares about such things. CJ is threatening to put 'before' and 'after' photos of me on the wall of the gym. I cannot express how utterly mortifying this would be. Surely that is the preserve of Biggest Loser types, who've lost 5 stone and gone from 'blimpishly fat' to a size 12? Rather than me, who's gone from a bit of a muffin top and arms devoid of any muscle or definition to losing half a stone and being able to get the lids off jam jars? It doesn't feel sufficiently inspirational to see a photo of me with a few wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment, next to a photo of me with fewer wobbly bits, grinning with embarrassment.
Perhaps I embarked on the Great Carb Rebellion in order to avoid being on the wall of the gym and pointed at by punters thinking, 'Who's that girl, who clearly thinks she's better than she is?' Or perhaps I should just use one of my newly-muscled arms to punch James and tell him to find another former fatty to put on the wall. Yes, that sounds better. I've always meant to try boxing.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Welcome to the Cheap Sweets
Ah, the New Year - ushered in with the usual array of post-Christmas penury, the addition of festive flab and the sheer drear of returning to work. Even when there's hardly anyone at work, and you spend the first five minutes of every encounter with a colleague exchanging information about how their holiday was. But 2011 has an added excitement - we now have to pay more VAT on everything! As if we weren't feeling bleak enough, having spent far too much on presents and in the sales, and fallen off the dietary bandwagon, gammon-faced Cameron has really stuck the boot in.
In these straightened times, one must turn to the world of cheap thrills in order to cheer oneself up. I was thinking last night of a list of free, or nearly free delights with which to start my year.
1/ The gargantuan plastic jar of sweets which my boss provided for Christmas will surely still yield a few more Dolly Mixtures. I've no idea what's in Dolly Mixtures - I'm hoping, in a Toy Story 3 style, that it's not actual dollies - but they are awesome. If you haven't had any since you were 10, then get a bag, throw away the jelly ones if there are any (urgh), and dig in. They're tiny, so you can eat fifty of them and feel like you haven't really been that bad. There's something about the slightly fudgy texture, and the constant question of, 'do the orange ones really taste different from the purple ones?' that is just as pleasing as scoffing Green and Black's Butterscotch chocolate. Albeit in a way that's a bit like reading the latest Jilly Cooper in hardback when you know you should really be reading Jonathan Frantzen.
2/ There is no snow and ice left in Edinburgh. I can't overstate the pure pleasure I felt this morning when I put on a pair of boots with a heel, instead of walking boots, and walked at a normal pace, rather than my tiny-geisha-steps-shuffle. It's a joy that's equal to the one you get when the Anadin Extra kicks in and your vicious headache finally disappears. Snow, and its ensuing dramas, was fine for the first week, and then it became a total pain in the arse. Thank you, 2011, for starting without any more of it, and for melting (nearly all) of the remainder whilst I was away for Christmas.
3/ I got given John Lewis vouchers as part of my Christmas present (a joy in and of itself; you know you're middle aged when John Lewis becomes your favourite shop. I reached that landmark about 10 years ago, truth be told. Take me on a trip to look at toasters and baking equipment in the kitchen department, and I'm happy). The vouchers were to purchase a new duvet cover and pillow cases. The ones in the flat were fine, but not really me (they're a bit... brown), so I was eyeing up some with a bit of embroidery on. I bought them. I even managed to put them on, on the actual day of purchase (surely one of my Resolutions for this year is to Stop. Bloody. Procrastinating). I snuggled under the duvet and marvelled at how great it is to cuddle up under a brand new, crispy, white cotton duvet cover. 'This is what it must be like for people quite often, who iron their duvet covers', I thought. 'Best make the most of it, then', my inner voice declared. 'Given you've only just bought an iron for the first time in 4 years, it's not likely you're going to suddenly morph into the kind of person who irons their duvet cover.'
4/ Now it's the 4th of January, we can hopefully stop reviewing 2010, and I can also stop being told what I should like/be anticipating for 2011. There's a raft of doubtless thrilling theatrical productions in London which I won't see, because I'm not there for long enough to fit in theatre visits and pub sessions with my mates. Ditto art exhibitions, although I am planning a trip to a Dior illustration exhibition when I'm in town on Thursday. Books I should be reading? I'm still planning to fit in 2009's Booker winner at some stage. New bands? To be honest, I'm still happy with the banjo stylings of Mumford and Sons. (Added benefit: for some reason, it's the only music that will persuade me to actually run on a treadmill. I have no such hopes for the XX or The Vaccines, which people in the know are indicating are this year's New Big Thing.)
5/ As everyone's got an iPad for Christmas - I've no idea if this is a fact, I'm just assuming loads of people have - people can stop asking me if I've got an iPhone and whether I know how to use it. The answers to those questions are:
Yes, and it's lovely and shiny
and
No, of course I don't, it's for work, and every time I try to make a phone call on it, it freaks me out. And that touch-screen typing thing doesn't work for me either. It's mainly useful for looking at things on eBay when you're waiting for someone and you're bored. And as a side point, having, 'sent from my iPhone' at the end of all your emails is annoying; it's like you're boasting about the fact that you've got one.
6/ Everyone seems to agree that Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights is quite the worst comedy thing that's ever been put on TV (other than Come Fly with Me, but as I haven't seen that, I'll just have to rely on the trailers making it look excruciating, and at least a decade past its sell-by date). I don't know why all these stand-ups have suddenly decided that they're great at doing sketch shows. Maybe it stops them using up great swathes of their stand-up material that they're still touring/trying to shift on DVD. But they're all having a crack at it, and they're all shit. Stephen K. Amos - perfectly nice fellow, I'm sure, but his show looked like a Lenny Henry series from the early '80s. Surely the BBC's comedy commissioner didn't really say, 'Ooh, you're not white, therefore you have to have quite a few sketches where you dress up as your own mum?' Channel 4's new offering is some woman called Morgana (ever heard of her? No, me neither; was slightly expecting the screechy witch from the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film trying out a Derren Brown-influenced prediction show). Her schtick seems to be funny wigs and googly glasses for each character. Because people with chronically bad eyesight and frizzy hair are always hilarious.
But Frankie really wins all the awards for this category hands down. I used to think he was deeply unpleasant but occasionally very funny on Mock the Week. Then he sacked one of my friends, who was supposed to be doing the PR for his mystifyingly popular book, on the basis of a typo in an email. Then Channel 4 give him a bucket of cash to make offensive stand-up jokes (TM the Daily Mail), interspersed with terrible sketches. The brief for which appears to have been: make them 3 times as long as they need to be, with no punchlines, and referencing TV shows and films that are at least fifteen years old. With terrible wigs. And no acting ability. Which are also offensive. In the one I saw, the sketches were based around Knight Rider and The Green Mile. It's a much debated question - what constitutes offence in comedy, and whether any subject is off-limits - but the basics for me are always, 'do I laugh, and then have a bit of a guilty intake of breath, or do I just think, "bloody hell, that's offensive, and it's not even funny".'
Let's hope one of Frankie's New Year's resolutions is to give it all up, as he keeps threatening to, and then I'll have another VAT-free pleasure to add to my list.
In these straightened times, one must turn to the world of cheap thrills in order to cheer oneself up. I was thinking last night of a list of free, or nearly free delights with which to start my year.
1/ The gargantuan plastic jar of sweets which my boss provided for Christmas will surely still yield a few more Dolly Mixtures. I've no idea what's in Dolly Mixtures - I'm hoping, in a Toy Story 3 style, that it's not actual dollies - but they are awesome. If you haven't had any since you were 10, then get a bag, throw away the jelly ones if there are any (urgh), and dig in. They're tiny, so you can eat fifty of them and feel like you haven't really been that bad. There's something about the slightly fudgy texture, and the constant question of, 'do the orange ones really taste different from the purple ones?' that is just as pleasing as scoffing Green and Black's Butterscotch chocolate. Albeit in a way that's a bit like reading the latest Jilly Cooper in hardback when you know you should really be reading Jonathan Frantzen.
2/ There is no snow and ice left in Edinburgh. I can't overstate the pure pleasure I felt this morning when I put on a pair of boots with a heel, instead of walking boots, and walked at a normal pace, rather than my tiny-geisha-steps-shuffle. It's a joy that's equal to the one you get when the Anadin Extra kicks in and your vicious headache finally disappears. Snow, and its ensuing dramas, was fine for the first week, and then it became a total pain in the arse. Thank you, 2011, for starting without any more of it, and for melting (nearly all) of the remainder whilst I was away for Christmas.
3/ I got given John Lewis vouchers as part of my Christmas present (a joy in and of itself; you know you're middle aged when John Lewis becomes your favourite shop. I reached that landmark about 10 years ago, truth be told. Take me on a trip to look at toasters and baking equipment in the kitchen department, and I'm happy). The vouchers were to purchase a new duvet cover and pillow cases. The ones in the flat were fine, but not really me (they're a bit... brown), so I was eyeing up some with a bit of embroidery on. I bought them. I even managed to put them on, on the actual day of purchase (surely one of my Resolutions for this year is to Stop. Bloody. Procrastinating). I snuggled under the duvet and marvelled at how great it is to cuddle up under a brand new, crispy, white cotton duvet cover. 'This is what it must be like for people quite often, who iron their duvet covers', I thought. 'Best make the most of it, then', my inner voice declared. 'Given you've only just bought an iron for the first time in 4 years, it's not likely you're going to suddenly morph into the kind of person who irons their duvet cover.'
4/ Now it's the 4th of January, we can hopefully stop reviewing 2010, and I can also stop being told what I should like/be anticipating for 2011. There's a raft of doubtless thrilling theatrical productions in London which I won't see, because I'm not there for long enough to fit in theatre visits and pub sessions with my mates. Ditto art exhibitions, although I am planning a trip to a Dior illustration exhibition when I'm in town on Thursday. Books I should be reading? I'm still planning to fit in 2009's Booker winner at some stage. New bands? To be honest, I'm still happy with the banjo stylings of Mumford and Sons. (Added benefit: for some reason, it's the only music that will persuade me to actually run on a treadmill. I have no such hopes for the XX or The Vaccines, which people in the know are indicating are this year's New Big Thing.)
5/ As everyone's got an iPad for Christmas - I've no idea if this is a fact, I'm just assuming loads of people have - people can stop asking me if I've got an iPhone and whether I know how to use it. The answers to those questions are:
Yes, and it's lovely and shiny
and
No, of course I don't, it's for work, and every time I try to make a phone call on it, it freaks me out. And that touch-screen typing thing doesn't work for me either. It's mainly useful for looking at things on eBay when you're waiting for someone and you're bored. And as a side point, having, 'sent from my iPhone' at the end of all your emails is annoying; it's like you're boasting about the fact that you've got one.
6/ Everyone seems to agree that Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights is quite the worst comedy thing that's ever been put on TV (other than Come Fly with Me, but as I haven't seen that, I'll just have to rely on the trailers making it look excruciating, and at least a decade past its sell-by date). I don't know why all these stand-ups have suddenly decided that they're great at doing sketch shows. Maybe it stops them using up great swathes of their stand-up material that they're still touring/trying to shift on DVD. But they're all having a crack at it, and they're all shit. Stephen K. Amos - perfectly nice fellow, I'm sure, but his show looked like a Lenny Henry series from the early '80s. Surely the BBC's comedy commissioner didn't really say, 'Ooh, you're not white, therefore you have to have quite a few sketches where you dress up as your own mum?' Channel 4's new offering is some woman called Morgana (ever heard of her? No, me neither; was slightly expecting the screechy witch from the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film trying out a Derren Brown-influenced prediction show). Her schtick seems to be funny wigs and googly glasses for each character. Because people with chronically bad eyesight and frizzy hair are always hilarious.
But Frankie really wins all the awards for this category hands down. I used to think he was deeply unpleasant but occasionally very funny on Mock the Week. Then he sacked one of my friends, who was supposed to be doing the PR for his mystifyingly popular book, on the basis of a typo in an email. Then Channel 4 give him a bucket of cash to make offensive stand-up jokes (TM the Daily Mail), interspersed with terrible sketches. The brief for which appears to have been: make them 3 times as long as they need to be, with no punchlines, and referencing TV shows and films that are at least fifteen years old. With terrible wigs. And no acting ability. Which are also offensive. In the one I saw, the sketches were based around Knight Rider and The Green Mile. It's a much debated question - what constitutes offence in comedy, and whether any subject is off-limits - but the basics for me are always, 'do I laugh, and then have a bit of a guilty intake of breath, or do I just think, "bloody hell, that's offensive, and it's not even funny".'
Let's hope one of Frankie's New Year's resolutions is to give it all up, as he keeps threatening to, and then I'll have another VAT-free pleasure to add to my list.
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
Unaccustoms
Local headline spotted today en route home from work: Rush to empty bins before Christmas.
Is this a random edict from a council bored of having to defend the amount of grit and salt there is everywhere, relative to the amount of snow and ice? Or is it some kind of Scottish custom that I've never heard of before? 'D'you no ken tha' Santa will nae come t'yoor hoose if ye hav'nae emptied yoor bins, Hen?'
The worst of it is that I have loads of recycling, which is all supposed to go in a trio of bins up the road. But they haven't been emptied for what seems like weeks and bags of cans, plastic bottles and cardboard are piling up on the pavement next to them like a scene from a documentary about the Three Day Week.
If I add all my recyclables to this growing mountain, will it be enough to guarantee the arrival of presents, mulled wine, far too much cheese, the billionth play of Fairytale of New York on the radio, whatever Pixar film hasn't yet been on the telly and goodwill to all men?
Is this a random edict from a council bored of having to defend the amount of grit and salt there is everywhere, relative to the amount of snow and ice? Or is it some kind of Scottish custom that I've never heard of before? 'D'you no ken tha' Santa will nae come t'yoor hoose if ye hav'nae emptied yoor bins, Hen?'
The worst of it is that I have loads of recycling, which is all supposed to go in a trio of bins up the road. But they haven't been emptied for what seems like weeks and bags of cans, plastic bottles and cardboard are piling up on the pavement next to them like a scene from a documentary about the Three Day Week.
If I add all my recyclables to this growing mountain, will it be enough to guarantee the arrival of presents, mulled wine, far too much cheese, the billionth play of Fairytale of New York on the radio, whatever Pixar film hasn't yet been on the telly and goodwill to all men?
Friday, 10 December 2010
Rage Against the Machines
So, a golden age of TV is nearing its end. If by 'golden age' you mean 'the state of the four channels available to me, because I haven't sorted out cable, being stuffed with reality shows populated by hateful idiots'. This is, of course, my favourite telly. Whilst it may be fun and educational to watch lovely David Attenborough telling you all about the evolution of Komodo Dragons or somesuch, and to have BBC costume dramas on a Sunday evening, with big bonnets and handsome men in breeches making you feel vaguely cultured, there is a particular joy to be gleaned from waging a twelve-week hate campaign against those who've chosen to stick their heads above the reality TV parapets.
This autumn, I have been spoiled rotten. There's been Strictly, the X-Factor, I'm a Celebrity AND The Apprentice! I've barely had enough hours in the week to fit them all in. I'm drowning in a sea of bile and internet gossip about all concerned. I'm keeping myself warm by stoking the fires of wrath generated by Katie Weasel, Stuart 'The Brand' Baggs, Gillian McKeith and the like. And the brilliant thing is that you're part of an instant community - every Monday sees most of the office chatting about X-Factor (a show which I generally avoid like the plague - it's just karaoke with bigger production values - but which this year has been off-the-scale bonkers). The Guardian does some fantastically funny liveblogs about all the shows bar I'm a Celeb (well, they might have done that too, but I could only take so much of Gillian in the end). And the MMMC and I have regular text battles when it comes to who we fancy on Strictly - he seems to have an alarming fondness for the professionals with fake boobs, whereas my heart belongs entirely to Matt Baker.
So, in terms of People to Hate, who's given it 150%, and who's been lacking in meal-winning stars?
The Apprentice - now an out-and-out comedy, with no pretence that it's in any way a reflection of business acumen or the current state of the business nation. The contestants spend all their time either inventing rubbish products (sausages made out of string, sawdust and minced-up CVs; strange things to enable you to read paperbacks on the beach - er, that's what your hands are for, surely?) or having to sell other people's rubbish products (dresses made of old ties; DVDs of kids pretending to ski or drive round Brands Hatch). The other available hours in the day are dedicated to spouting absolute crap in the board room and bitching about each other in the car when the teams split up to tackle different parts of the task.
This year's crew of eminent business brains (and Stuart) have been hateful numpties to a man (and woman) - although I have a sneaking fondness for Posh Chris the Investment Banker because I think he looks exactly like the director Chris Nolan, when I was at school with him. Also him telling Stuart to 'Fuck Orf' this week was hilarious and I applaud his restraint in not hitting him, when offered the chance.
Winner: Stuart, for this week's total cringe-fest in the boardroom, when he devolved into a simile/metaphor (my brain was so addled I've no idea which it was) about a field-full of ponies as an example of how much potential he had, which had me actually hiding behind a cushion and screaming, 'Oh God, STOP TALKING', but which LordSirAlun somehow fell for, causing Bambi-eyed Twiglet Person Liz to get the Fired Finger instead. I can only think that LSA has allowed Stuart to progress to the interview round because of its unlimited potential for pure comedy.
I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here - again, a show which I never usually watch because I think the idea of making people eat insects and be shoved into coffins with rats is inhumane and hateful, and the idea that it's peddled as prime-time entertainment shows how morally off-kilter we all are these days. But that was before Gillian McKeith decided to get involved. She was terrified of everything that moved, including her own shadow. She had no team spirit whatsoever. She was given to shrieking like a banshee and fake-fainting every time someone asked her to do more than tell them her name. She gave every impression of being a deranged witch, with no sense whatsoever of how massively irritating she was. 'You don't understand phobias!' she'd screech whenever one of the other contestants asked her why they weren't going to get anything to eat that night because she'd failed to even contemplate attempting another task.
There's only one question available here: why on earth would you go on this show if you're phobic of anything with more than two legs? Does your husband (who's, coincidentally, also your manager) want to cash in on your life insurance so badly that he'd actually finish you off on (semi-live) telly? It's a sneaky way of murdering someone, I'll grant you.
It gave rise to a brilliant comedy song, but I stopped watching almost as soon as I'd started, so Gillian did her best in the hate-stakes, but everyone else seemed OK. Especially eventual winner Stacey Solomon - you've got to love a girl who's just so cheerful all the time.
Strictly Come Dancing - generally speaking, other than finding Tess Daly dead behind the eyes, and wishing that they'd send Bruce Forsyth to a farm in Wales and get someone who's not a billion years old as co-presenter, there are few hate figures to be found on Strictly. Some of them aren't very good (hello, Peter Shilton), some of them stick around, inexplicably, for ages, whilst not really improving (hello, walking mahogany wardrobe Gavin Henson) and some of them seem like they're actually getting quite a lot out of it, so you root for them (Patsy Kensit for me this year). But this year started well for those of us who love to hate, with odious little creep Paul Daniels dancing with poor Ola, who won last year, so got punished this year. I hate Paul Daniels. I've always hated him. And him dressed in spangles wasn't going to change that. But luckily he was shoved off the Strictly floor, and has disappeared into obscurity once more.
Then, the megalith that was Ann Widdecombe became every reality TV producer's worst nightmare (or wet dream, depending on whether you're trying to uphold standards at the BBC, or you just want unlimited coverage for your show across all media outlets). She refused to try; her routines revolved around moving her arms by twenty degrees max, and being hauled around the floor by a rictus-wearing Anton du Beke (perhaps being punished for requesting a payrise this series or something?) She saw off dancers who were pretty good, and trying hard, who really wanted to stay. She refused, once the joke wore thin after week three to quit (like John Sergeant) and seemed to believe that she was hilarious. I got so worked up with hating her, and everyone who was voting for her, that I nearly blew a gasket.
Please, next year, can we not have a 'comedy' contestant on Strictly? Because it's really painful to watch, and you can't underestimate the viewing public's idiocy when it comes to voting for people like that to stay in.
Talking of which, the X-Factor has beaten all-comers this year with its Top Ten of hateable freakazoids. In no particular order, there's been:
One Direction - Justin Bieber clones who can't carry a tune around in a bucket, poor lambs. They will probably be ludicrously successful, despite having no USP whatsoever. I await the 'drink and drug shame' stories, whilst also feeling rather sad for them. Let's hope a couple of them manage to earn a bit through a two-year stint in Les Miserables.
Mary Byrne - a woman who believes that bellowing every single song somehow makes it better. Is in no way 'relevant', as Simon would say. She doesn't even have terrible hair and a tragic backstory like Susan Boyle (who can actually sing). She will probably be fine for the next five years, 'singing' on cruise ships and will front a collection of chiffon-sleeved black tent dresses for 'the more mature lady' in the back pages of You magazine.
Cher Lloyd - a girl who looks as though she'd first bully you out of your lunch money, then steal your boyfriend for good measure. Grow yourself some eyebrows and eat a pie, love. Then stop rapping because it hurts my ears. The judges, for some reason, adore Cher and seem to think she is edgy and a pop sensation. I remain bemused.
Wagner - the most demented thing I've ever seen on TV. Even Sharon Osbourne looked alarmed when confronted by him in the judges' house round - which is an achievement, given how much Botox she's had. Leonine, mad for bongos and 'ladies', with little to no grasp of any song he was singing, Wagner looked thoroughly confused every week when voted through to the next round. As were the viewers. Even Jedward looked more entertaining to me than Wagner. They had to have a double eviction, just to get rid of him. He'll definitely be on the Talk Talk sponsor ads next year and on Never Mind the Buzzcocks in some capacity.
Katie Waissel - surely the Grande Dame of hateable telly figures, Katie bestrode the world like a peroxided colossus. She was so irritating she ended up getting death threats, which, I admit, was a tad extreme. After all, she was just a middle class girl with a huge sense of entitlement and a belief in her own abilities that wasn't really reflected in her actual talent for singing. But there are loads of girls like that in Britain. Killing them all would be quite an arbitrary way of reducing the population and would take ages. She resorted to trying to boost her popularity by cutting her hair off and dying it brown, so that she looked like a Hobbit. This had the unfortunate side effect of making you realise she had disproportionately large ears, like a bat. I wanted to keep her in so that, closer to Christmas, they could re-christen her Katie Wassail, but I think that's a gag only I would've appreciated. After about four million increasingly plaintive 'sing offs', she was finally given the boot with Wagner. She'll probably end up replacing Christine Bleakley on Daybreak, or Christine-clone Alex on The One Show.
So this weekend, it's all over for the X-Factor pop poppets (a snore-off between cuddly Matt Cardie and good-but-searingly dull Rebecca?) and the Strictly guys and gals (it's Matt all the way for me; Kara is a brilliant dancer but seems to have no personality; Ssssssssssssscott tries too hard to be wacky and Pamela's piggy eyes annoy me, even though I think she's fine at dancing. Also, yes, I know she's married to BILLY CONNOLLY. Please stop telling me that). And just a week more of the Apprentices. Then I shall have to transition awkwardly into the 'goodwill to all men' frame of mind required for Christmas. Ah, it was such fun while it lasted.
This autumn, I have been spoiled rotten. There's been Strictly, the X-Factor, I'm a Celebrity AND The Apprentice! I've barely had enough hours in the week to fit them all in. I'm drowning in a sea of bile and internet gossip about all concerned. I'm keeping myself warm by stoking the fires of wrath generated by Katie Weasel, Stuart 'The Brand' Baggs, Gillian McKeith and the like. And the brilliant thing is that you're part of an instant community - every Monday sees most of the office chatting about X-Factor (a show which I generally avoid like the plague - it's just karaoke with bigger production values - but which this year has been off-the-scale bonkers). The Guardian does some fantastically funny liveblogs about all the shows bar I'm a Celeb (well, they might have done that too, but I could only take so much of Gillian in the end). And the MMMC and I have regular text battles when it comes to who we fancy on Strictly - he seems to have an alarming fondness for the professionals with fake boobs, whereas my heart belongs entirely to Matt Baker.
So, in terms of People to Hate, who's given it 150%, and who's been lacking in meal-winning stars?
The Apprentice - now an out-and-out comedy, with no pretence that it's in any way a reflection of business acumen or the current state of the business nation. The contestants spend all their time either inventing rubbish products (sausages made out of string, sawdust and minced-up CVs; strange things to enable you to read paperbacks on the beach - er, that's what your hands are for, surely?) or having to sell other people's rubbish products (dresses made of old ties; DVDs of kids pretending to ski or drive round Brands Hatch). The other available hours in the day are dedicated to spouting absolute crap in the board room and bitching about each other in the car when the teams split up to tackle different parts of the task.
This year's crew of eminent business brains (and Stuart) have been hateful numpties to a man (and woman) - although I have a sneaking fondness for Posh Chris the Investment Banker because I think he looks exactly like the director Chris Nolan, when I was at school with him. Also him telling Stuart to 'Fuck Orf' this week was hilarious and I applaud his restraint in not hitting him, when offered the chance.
Winner: Stuart, for this week's total cringe-fest in the boardroom, when he devolved into a simile/metaphor (my brain was so addled I've no idea which it was) about a field-full of ponies as an example of how much potential he had, which had me actually hiding behind a cushion and screaming, 'Oh God, STOP TALKING', but which LordSirAlun somehow fell for, causing Bambi-eyed Twiglet Person Liz to get the Fired Finger instead. I can only think that LSA has allowed Stuart to progress to the interview round because of its unlimited potential for pure comedy.
I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here - again, a show which I never usually watch because I think the idea of making people eat insects and be shoved into coffins with rats is inhumane and hateful, and the idea that it's peddled as prime-time entertainment shows how morally off-kilter we all are these days. But that was before Gillian McKeith decided to get involved. She was terrified of everything that moved, including her own shadow. She had no team spirit whatsoever. She was given to shrieking like a banshee and fake-fainting every time someone asked her to do more than tell them her name. She gave every impression of being a deranged witch, with no sense whatsoever of how massively irritating she was. 'You don't understand phobias!' she'd screech whenever one of the other contestants asked her why they weren't going to get anything to eat that night because she'd failed to even contemplate attempting another task.
There's only one question available here: why on earth would you go on this show if you're phobic of anything with more than two legs? Does your husband (who's, coincidentally, also your manager) want to cash in on your life insurance so badly that he'd actually finish you off on (semi-live) telly? It's a sneaky way of murdering someone, I'll grant you.
It gave rise to a brilliant comedy song, but I stopped watching almost as soon as I'd started, so Gillian did her best in the hate-stakes, but everyone else seemed OK. Especially eventual winner Stacey Solomon - you've got to love a girl who's just so cheerful all the time.
Strictly Come Dancing - generally speaking, other than finding Tess Daly dead behind the eyes, and wishing that they'd send Bruce Forsyth to a farm in Wales and get someone who's not a billion years old as co-presenter, there are few hate figures to be found on Strictly. Some of them aren't very good (hello, Peter Shilton), some of them stick around, inexplicably, for ages, whilst not really improving (hello, walking mahogany wardrobe Gavin Henson) and some of them seem like they're actually getting quite a lot out of it, so you root for them (Patsy Kensit for me this year). But this year started well for those of us who love to hate, with odious little creep Paul Daniels dancing with poor Ola, who won last year, so got punished this year. I hate Paul Daniels. I've always hated him. And him dressed in spangles wasn't going to change that. But luckily he was shoved off the Strictly floor, and has disappeared into obscurity once more.
Then, the megalith that was Ann Widdecombe became every reality TV producer's worst nightmare (or wet dream, depending on whether you're trying to uphold standards at the BBC, or you just want unlimited coverage for your show across all media outlets). She refused to try; her routines revolved around moving her arms by twenty degrees max, and being hauled around the floor by a rictus-wearing Anton du Beke (perhaps being punished for requesting a payrise this series or something?) She saw off dancers who were pretty good, and trying hard, who really wanted to stay. She refused, once the joke wore thin after week three to quit (like John Sergeant) and seemed to believe that she was hilarious. I got so worked up with hating her, and everyone who was voting for her, that I nearly blew a gasket.
Please, next year, can we not have a 'comedy' contestant on Strictly? Because it's really painful to watch, and you can't underestimate the viewing public's idiocy when it comes to voting for people like that to stay in.
Talking of which, the X-Factor has beaten all-comers this year with its Top Ten of hateable freakazoids. In no particular order, there's been:
One Direction - Justin Bieber clones who can't carry a tune around in a bucket, poor lambs. They will probably be ludicrously successful, despite having no USP whatsoever. I await the 'drink and drug shame' stories, whilst also feeling rather sad for them. Let's hope a couple of them manage to earn a bit through a two-year stint in Les Miserables.
Mary Byrne - a woman who believes that bellowing every single song somehow makes it better. Is in no way 'relevant', as Simon would say. She doesn't even have terrible hair and a tragic backstory like Susan Boyle (who can actually sing). She will probably be fine for the next five years, 'singing' on cruise ships and will front a collection of chiffon-sleeved black tent dresses for 'the more mature lady' in the back pages of You magazine.
Cher Lloyd - a girl who looks as though she'd first bully you out of your lunch money, then steal your boyfriend for good measure. Grow yourself some eyebrows and eat a pie, love. Then stop rapping because it hurts my ears. The judges, for some reason, adore Cher and seem to think she is edgy and a pop sensation. I remain bemused.
Wagner - the most demented thing I've ever seen on TV. Even Sharon Osbourne looked alarmed when confronted by him in the judges' house round - which is an achievement, given how much Botox she's had. Leonine, mad for bongos and 'ladies', with little to no grasp of any song he was singing, Wagner looked thoroughly confused every week when voted through to the next round. As were the viewers. Even Jedward looked more entertaining to me than Wagner. They had to have a double eviction, just to get rid of him. He'll definitely be on the Talk Talk sponsor ads next year and on Never Mind the Buzzcocks in some capacity.
Katie Waissel - surely the Grande Dame of hateable telly figures, Katie bestrode the world like a peroxided colossus. She was so irritating she ended up getting death threats, which, I admit, was a tad extreme. After all, she was just a middle class girl with a huge sense of entitlement and a belief in her own abilities that wasn't really reflected in her actual talent for singing. But there are loads of girls like that in Britain. Killing them all would be quite an arbitrary way of reducing the population and would take ages. She resorted to trying to boost her popularity by cutting her hair off and dying it brown, so that she looked like a Hobbit. This had the unfortunate side effect of making you realise she had disproportionately large ears, like a bat. I wanted to keep her in so that, closer to Christmas, they could re-christen her Katie Wassail, but I think that's a gag only I would've appreciated. After about four million increasingly plaintive 'sing offs', she was finally given the boot with Wagner. She'll probably end up replacing Christine Bleakley on Daybreak, or Christine-clone Alex on The One Show.
So this weekend, it's all over for the X-Factor pop poppets (a snore-off between cuddly Matt Cardie and good-but-searingly dull Rebecca?) and the Strictly guys and gals (it's Matt all the way for me; Kara is a brilliant dancer but seems to have no personality; Ssssssssssssscott tries too hard to be wacky and Pamela's piggy eyes annoy me, even though I think she's fine at dancing. Also, yes, I know she's married to BILLY CONNOLLY. Please stop telling me that). And just a week more of the Apprentices. Then I shall have to transition awkwardly into the 'goodwill to all men' frame of mind required for Christmas. Ah, it was such fun while it lasted.
Snow ho ho?
So, the weather update: Edinburgh is having the WORST WEATHER IT'S HAD FOR 50 YEARS. Yes, that's half a century. Thanks a lot, Scotland. I've been lovely about you and spend all my time saying to everyone I know how great Edinburgh is, and this is my reward? Traversing the streets like an arthritic snail, in an attempt not to go flat on my arse on the 3-inch thick ice? Giving myself chronic back ache by hunching my shoulders up against the wind and the threat of going flying? Reverting to the 80s by buying a snood? (Which, inexplicably, when wet, smells of horses, despite being made not even of wool, but is 100% acrylic).
All of this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to leave the city. But my job means I have to go down to London for meetings. The last one necessitated spending six and three quarter hours on a train from Berwick Upon Tweed to Kings Cross (this should have taken about four hours). Then I had to do battle with a tube strike the next day. On the way back, we were storming along - relatively speaking - till they decided, with no explanation as to why, to kick us off the train at Darlington. Then when I eventually got to Edinburgh, I had to wait an hour for a cab. So I was in transit from 8.30am, when I left my hotel to go to Kings Cross, till 7.15pm, when I finally arrived home. And now I've found out I have to go down for another meeting on Tuesday morning - just when the weather's going to get horrendous again.
I love the way that the Government says, whenever the 'Britain in chaos' headlines have gathered enough momentum, and economists have worked out how much we're losing per day because of the snow (£1.2 billion this year, apparently), that there's no point spending money on infrastructure to avoid some of this, because 'we rarely have weather this bad'. Um, 1/ Large swathes of the country have been brought to their knees for the last three years, by my reckoning and 2/ Winter happens every year. Unless the shiny new coalition government are going to somehow rearrange the seasons so that we just have Spring, Summer and Autumn, followed by Spring again, it's pretty likely that there will be snow at some stage between December and March. Or probably May, judging by this last year.
How much would it really cost to sort out the rail network, for example? Versus how much you're losing in terms of people not being able to get to work, or spending three hours getting across London, then getting to work and pretty much having to set off for home again?
Or here's a nifty idea: why don't the Government phone up some chums in, say, Canada, and ask them how they manage to keep everything going? And then, you know, copy them? Because they have winter every year. Loads of it. And they look at our bits of snow, and our world-headline-creating grinding of a whole nation to a halt and they laugh. Not even behind their be-mittened hands. In our faces. Because we're idiots.
It's nice to have student riots to distract us from all this (and their riot fires to keep central London warm), but it will not make me any happier when I inevitably spend literally twice as long as I need to on a train from Edinburgh to London and back. And no, I can't risk flying, because I've seen what happens to planes at airports when it snows: you're left on an Easyjet for three hours, going nowhere, and then shoved back into the, now ironically named, departure lounge and left to go feral in Duty Free. I'm not risking that. At least if you sit on an East Coast train for long enough, you get given a packet containing two free biscuits. (It's a measure of how depressed we all were on that journey that we all went, 'Oh, wow, thanks!' when given these delicacies, and actually meant it sincerely).
All of this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to leave the city. But my job means I have to go down to London for meetings. The last one necessitated spending six and three quarter hours on a train from Berwick Upon Tweed to Kings Cross (this should have taken about four hours). Then I had to do battle with a tube strike the next day. On the way back, we were storming along - relatively speaking - till they decided, with no explanation as to why, to kick us off the train at Darlington. Then when I eventually got to Edinburgh, I had to wait an hour for a cab. So I was in transit from 8.30am, when I left my hotel to go to Kings Cross, till 7.15pm, when I finally arrived home. And now I've found out I have to go down for another meeting on Tuesday morning - just when the weather's going to get horrendous again.
I love the way that the Government says, whenever the 'Britain in chaos' headlines have gathered enough momentum, and economists have worked out how much we're losing per day because of the snow (£1.2 billion this year, apparently), that there's no point spending money on infrastructure to avoid some of this, because 'we rarely have weather this bad'. Um, 1/ Large swathes of the country have been brought to their knees for the last three years, by my reckoning and 2/ Winter happens every year. Unless the shiny new coalition government are going to somehow rearrange the seasons so that we just have Spring, Summer and Autumn, followed by Spring again, it's pretty likely that there will be snow at some stage between December and March. Or probably May, judging by this last year.
How much would it really cost to sort out the rail network, for example? Versus how much you're losing in terms of people not being able to get to work, or spending three hours getting across London, then getting to work and pretty much having to set off for home again?
Or here's a nifty idea: why don't the Government phone up some chums in, say, Canada, and ask them how they manage to keep everything going? And then, you know, copy them? Because they have winter every year. Loads of it. And they look at our bits of snow, and our world-headline-creating grinding of a whole nation to a halt and they laugh. Not even behind their be-mittened hands. In our faces. Because we're idiots.
It's nice to have student riots to distract us from all this (and their riot fires to keep central London warm), but it will not make me any happier when I inevitably spend literally twice as long as I need to on a train from Edinburgh to London and back. And no, I can't risk flying, because I've seen what happens to planes at airports when it snows: you're left on an Easyjet for three hours, going nowhere, and then shoved back into the, now ironically named, departure lounge and left to go feral in Duty Free. I'm not risking that. At least if you sit on an East Coast train for long enough, you get given a packet containing two free biscuits. (It's a measure of how depressed we all were on that journey that we all went, 'Oh, wow, thanks!' when given these delicacies, and actually meant it sincerely).
Monday, 6 December 2010
The Weather Outside is Frightful
Everyone keeps telling me that the weather in Scotland is 'not usually this bad this early'. The MMMC told me that, and backed it up with a plea for me 'not to relocate' (chance would be a fine thing - I can't move much further than my front door at the moment). Yes, there is an absolute f*ckload of snow here.
I've never really dealt with a lot of snow before; I've never been skiing, for example, which is the only time you'd particularly need seasonally appropriate footwear for longer than two days. 'Dealing with snow' in London means skidding your way to the bus stop/tube station and then getting on whatever transport eventually appears. Then spending hours on it, wedged up against irate strangers, as you take six hours to traverse a distance that would normally take you twenty minutes. You arrive home wanting to kill nearly everyone, traumatised by the idea that you might have to do it all again tomorrow, and wondering why you have to go into work at all. The snow doesn't generally hang around for long, it just turns to ice on the pavements and filth on the roads.
The white stuff in Edinburgh, however, is totally different. I've bought actual walking boots in order to cope. (A friend of mine has been teasing me since I moved here about the fact that at some stage I'm going to find myself clad from head to toe in Goretex. My waterproof chrysalis starts here). The pavements are totally covered, and there's more arriving daily. Walking through it is actually fine, as it's really powdery at the moment, so it's OK. But I'm dreading that stage where most of it melts, and then it's just thick ice.
When I came up here for my second interview, my prospective boss asked me if I had any questions. 'Yes', I answered, 'I do. When it snows, do they grit the pavements properly?' She howled with laughter and said it was the most bizarre thing she'd ever been asked. 'But I want to know', I said, 'because they don't in London, and I've got a real horror of falling over and breaking a hip'. She laughed some more and then said, 'Yes, of course they do.'
Reader, she lied. They bloody don't. And today, they cancelled every bus in the city at about 2.00pm. All of them! Going nowhere! What the hell do you do if you can't walk home? I'm going to be spending a shitload on taxis for the next four months, I can tell you.
I've never really dealt with a lot of snow before; I've never been skiing, for example, which is the only time you'd particularly need seasonally appropriate footwear for longer than two days. 'Dealing with snow' in London means skidding your way to the bus stop/tube station and then getting on whatever transport eventually appears. Then spending hours on it, wedged up against irate strangers, as you take six hours to traverse a distance that would normally take you twenty minutes. You arrive home wanting to kill nearly everyone, traumatised by the idea that you might have to do it all again tomorrow, and wondering why you have to go into work at all. The snow doesn't generally hang around for long, it just turns to ice on the pavements and filth on the roads.
The white stuff in Edinburgh, however, is totally different. I've bought actual walking boots in order to cope. (A friend of mine has been teasing me since I moved here about the fact that at some stage I'm going to find myself clad from head to toe in Goretex. My waterproof chrysalis starts here). The pavements are totally covered, and there's more arriving daily. Walking through it is actually fine, as it's really powdery at the moment, so it's OK. But I'm dreading that stage where most of it melts, and then it's just thick ice.
When I came up here for my second interview, my prospective boss asked me if I had any questions. 'Yes', I answered, 'I do. When it snows, do they grit the pavements properly?' She howled with laughter and said it was the most bizarre thing she'd ever been asked. 'But I want to know', I said, 'because they don't in London, and I've got a real horror of falling over and breaking a hip'. She laughed some more and then said, 'Yes, of course they do.'
Reader, she lied. They bloody don't. And today, they cancelled every bus in the city at about 2.00pm. All of them! Going nowhere! What the hell do you do if you can't walk home? I'm going to be spending a shitload on taxis for the next four months, I can tell you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)