It was a beautiful, sun-drenched day here yesterday but, as is always the case, it was short-lived. Today I woke up to rain. These infuriating weather changes seem to perfectly reflect my fluctuating moods; I can be raring to go on some days but on others I feel like doing nothing more than shoving myself under the duvet and staying there. (I think, perhaps I should rephrase that last sentence. I’ll come back to it.) Actually, to be honest it doesn’t matter whether the sun is shining or not or whether it’s the weekend or not; I’ve realised that on some days I just wake up feeling shitty.
I was signed off work for five weeks at the end of March with anxiety, stress and depression. It was all work related – a combination of a multitude of crap which had been building up for months. The time off gave me the opportunity to recharge my batteries, gather myself together and (attempt to) give myself a good talking to. It also gave me the opportunity to converse with my manager and tell him exactly what needed to change in order for me to be able to successfully do my job. My views and opinions were not only acknowledged but agreed upon; I had every reason to complain and feel the way I was feeling and he told me so. In fact he apologised profusely. A plan was put into place for my return and return I did, feeling optimistic about my future there. But that feeling, too, was short-lived. Nothing has changed at all. And it’s unlikely to.
I think about what I’d like to do instead and then I spend hours trawling through job sites looking for something…half expecting my perfect job to jump out of the screen, grab me by the hair and pull me in. Obviously that hasn’t happened (I can’t see someone offering me a job as a midwife when I have no experience other than pushing my own son from my loins and holding the sweaty hand of a friend in her final minutes of labour. Nor do I see someone chucking me the keys of an old, dusty bookshop). Every realistic opportunity I see is the same – the same dreary sentences, the same salary, the same working hours, the same bloody day in, day out humdrum of blandness and dullness and corporate shittiness. The same sacrifice. The same dread in the pit of my stomach. If there was ever an example of the grass not being greener, this is it.
So I’m lumbered with it, it seems; stuck in a system I really don’t want to be in.
I think about what I’d really like to do instead; that thing which would make me truly happy if I had the liberty to choose, which of course I don’t. I’d like to write, to draw, to paint, to photograph, to create, to…oh I don’t know…to do something I feel I was supposed to do. I do all of these things already in my spare time but it’s with a sense of pointlessness, almost. A burst of creativity will enliven me and get me out of bed and drive me through the day, and I’ll edit and re-edit until I’m bursting with pride and then….nothing. My creation wilts in a folder on my desktop or on a shelf in my wardrobe or in a dark corner of cyberspace, with no reward other than an occasional remark from a bored family member or a passer-by. And it’s not the recognition I want, per se, it’s the knowing it’s not in vain, that it could be something far more than it is, that my passion could be a lifestyle rather than a means of escape; a source of income rather than a distraction from it.
I guess I’m just ‘on one’ at the moment and feeling sorry for myself; wondering what it’s all about, this crazy life. Yes it’s about survival and paying bills and having enough money left at the end of the month to do something, anything, to make it all seem a bit more worth-while, and because of that I am more than willing to make sacrifices, either of my time or happiness. But it just seems to be getting a little harder every day to do it.
One of the reasons I’m so proud of my son is that he took the plunge, quit his job and started his own business. He actually did it. And although he works ridiculously long hours – far more than if he were sitting in someone else’s office – they are hours of his own choosing. He makes his own rules and answers to no one but himself.
What I’d give to have that luxury right now.
It’s been a long time, I know.
I’ve just had a month off work.
Sick.
(Although I’d like to think I’m not actually sick, but just taking a breather.)
A month is a very long time to think about things.
The old grey donkey, Eeyore stood by himself in a thistly corner of the Forest, his front feet well apart, his head on one side, and thought about things. Sometimes he thought sadly to himself, “Why?” and sometimes he thought, “Wherefore?” and sometimes he thought, “Inasmuch as which?” and sometimes he didn’t quite know what he was thinking about.
I’ve been thinking about work a lot, which is the reason I haven’t been there and the reason the Doctor signed me off.
Eeyore, the old grey Donkey, stood by the side of the stream, and looked at himself in the water.
“Pathetic,” he said. “That’s what it is. Pathetic.”
He turned and walked slowly down the stream for twenty yards, splashed across it, and walked slowly back on the other side. Then he looked at himself in the water again.
“As I thought,” he said. “No better from this side. But nobody minds. Nobody cares. Pathetic, that’s what it is.”
You see, there have been many problems in the workplace.
A little Consideration, a little Thought for Others, makes all the difference. (Eeyore)
Communication – or lack of it – has been the biggest problem.
Nobody tells me. Nobody keeps me informed. I make it 17 days come Friday since anybody spoke to me.
(Eeyore)
I’m due to go back to the Doctor tomorrow and I’m certain he’ll allow me more time off if I so wish. But it doesn’t pay the bills, does it?
“Eeyore, what are you doing there?” said Rabbit.
“I’ll give you three guesses, Rabbit. Digging holes in the ground? Wrong. Leaping from branch to branch of a young oak tree? Wrong. Waiting for somebody to help me out of the river? Right. Give Rabbit time, and he’ll always get the answer.”
“But, Eeyore,” said Pooh in distress, “what can we – I mean, how shall we – do you think if we -”
“Yes,” said Eeyore. “One of those would be just the thing. Thank you, Pooh.”
Yes…one of those things would be a step in the right direction!
My apologies for the randomness.
This is Elaine, checking in, waving like a loony, hoping you’re all ok, and signing out. x
Happy egg day, everyone
My Easter Sunday started as every other day does: with the stench of cat piss wafting across the landing, a bleary eyed crawl down the stairs and a sniff around all corners of the front room trying to locate where the offending neighbourhood cat had marked it’s territory. As much as I love my two cats to have their freedom (and Bo, certainly, is a creature of the night) I have been forced to reconsider my options. Blocking up the cat flap was never one before, but I have now admited defeat. I’m going to nail it in (very apt for Easter) and my furry lovelies will have to change their habits and be either in or out at night time. I hope this won’t create too many problems for them, or for me: the last thing I want is to wake up to piles of my own cat’s poop in the kitchen.
After I scrubbed and disenfected the offending skirting board, I had two mugs of tea and turned on the wii for day 1 of my Personal Trainer Workout which Dan bought for my birthday. It kicked my ass! At one point I nearly lobbed the remote through the screen because the stupid instructor kept telling me I was doing it wrong. I persevered though, and apparently burned off 112 calories. Yay for me! I had a chocolate biscuit to celebrate.
I’ve signed myself up to this, as has Dan. Check it out…it could be interesting.
I’ve also signed up for something else, but more of that next time.
Well, I don’t have anything important or interesting to say but I wanted to check in, show my face and say hello.
HELLOOOOO!
Have yourselves a wonderful Easter but remember:
Sacrificing yourself isn’t always the way to go.
Huggies. x
I was googling ‘complaint letters’ today (don’t ask, lol) and came across something. You may have seen it before, but it was a first for me. Even though I write LOL a considerable amount these days, rarely does something actually make me really laugh out loud. But this did.
Tom went to India with a friend [Oliver Beale] recently and flew with Virgin. Oliver was appalled by the food and wrote a letter of complaint when he returned. The letter found its way to Richard Branson’s desk and he phoned Oliver saying he and his family had been laughing all weekend about it as it was the funniest letter he’d ever had.
Oliver Beale
Tel: obscured
Email: oli.beale@obscured
17th December 2008
Dear Mr Branson
REF: Mumbai to Heathrow 7th December 2008 Flying Club number obscured
I love the Virgin brand, I really do which is why I continue to use it despite a series of unfortunate incidents over the last few years. This latest incident takes the biscuit. Ironically, by the end of the flight I would have gladly paid over a thousand rupees for a single biscuit following the culinary journey of hell I was subjected to at the hands of your corporation.
Look at this Richard. Just look at it:
I imagine the same questions are racing through your brilliant mind as were racing through mine on that fateful day. What is this? Why have I been given it? What have I done to deserve this? And, Which one is the starter, which one is the desert? You don’t get to a position like yours Richard with anything less than a generous sprinkling of observational power so I KNOW you will have spotted the tomato next to the two yellow shafts of sponge on the left. Yes, it’s next to the sponge shaft without the green paste. That’s got to be the clue hasn’t it. No sane person would serve a desert with a tomato would they. Well answer me this Richard, what sort of animal would serve a desert with peas in:
I know it looks like a baaji but it’s in custard Richard, custard. It must be the pudding. Well you’ll be fascinated to hear that it wasn’t custard. It was a sour gel with a clear oil on top. It’s only redeeming feature was that it managed to be so alien to my palette that it took away the taste of the curry emanating from our miscellaneous central cuboid of beige matter. Perhaps the meal on the left might be the desert after all.
Anyway, this is all irrelevant at the moment. I was raised strictly but neatly by my parents and if they knew I had started desert before the main course, a sponge shaft would be the least of my worries. So lets peel back the tin-foil on the main dish and see what’s on offer.
I’ll try and explain how this felt. Imagine being a twelve year old boy Richard. Now imagine it’s Christmas morning and you’re sat their with your final present to open. It’s a big one, and you know what it is. It’s that Goodmans stereo you picked out the catalogue and wrote to Santa about. Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this:
Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s more of that Baaji custard. I admit I thought the same too, but no. It’s mustard Richard. MUSTARD. More mustard than any man could consume in a month. On the left we have a piece of broccoli and some peppers in a brown glue-like oil and on the right the chef had prepared some mashedpotato. The potato masher had obviously broken and so it was decided the next best thing would be to pass the potatoes through the digestive tract of a bird. Once it was regurgitated it was clearly then blended and mixed with a bit of mustard. Everybody likes a bit of mustard Richard. Jesus Christ.
By now I was actually starting to feel a little hypoglycaemic. I needed a sugar hit. Luckily there was a small cookie provided. It had caught my eye earlier due to it’s baffling presentation:
It appears to be in an evidence bag from the scene of a crime. A CRIME AGAINST BLOODY COOKING. Either that or some sort of back-street underground cookie, purchased off a gun-toting maniac high on his own supply of yeast. You certainly wouldn’t want to be caught carrying one of these through customs. Imagine biting into a piece of brass Richard. That would be softer on the teeth than the specimen above.
I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was relax but obviously I had to sit with that mess in front of me for half an hour. I swear the sponge shafts moved at one point. Once cleared. I decided to relax with a bit of your world-famous onboard entertainment. I switched it on:
I apologise for the quality of the photo, it’s just it was incredibly hard to capture Boris Johnson’s face through the flickering white lines running up and down the screen. Perhaps it would be better on another channel:
Is that Ray Liotta? A question I found myself asking over and over again throughout the gruelling half-hour I attempted to watch the film like this. After that I switched off. I’d had enough. I was the hungriest I’d been in my adult life and I had a splitting headache from squinting at a crackling screen.
My only option was to simply stare at the seat in front and wait for either food, or sleep. Neither came for an incredibly long time. But when it did it surpassed my wildest expectations:
Yes! It’s another crime-scene cookie. Only this time you dunk it in the white stuff. Richard…. What is that white stuff? It looked like it was going to be yoghurt. It finally dawned on me what it was after staring at it. It was a mixture between the Baaji custard and the Mustard sauce. It reminded me of my first week at university. I had overheard that you could make a drink by mixing vodka and refreshers. I lied to my new friends and told them I’d done it loads of times. When I attempted to make the drink in a big bowl it formed a cheese Richard, a cheese. That cheese looked a lot like your baaji-mustard.
So that was that Richard. I didn’t eat a bloody thing. My only question is: How can you live like this? I can’t imagine what dinner round your house is like, it must be like something out of a nature documentary.
As I said at the start I love your brand, I really do. It’s just a shame such a simple thing could bring it crashing to it’s knees and begging for sustenance.
Yours Sincererly
Oliver Beale
Hello? Anybody there?
It’s been ages since I last wrote here; in fact last time I wrote I didn’t really write at all, I just uploaded some silly pictures and passed it off as a blog entry. I wish I could tell you I’ve been too busy to blog, but that would be an outright lie. I think the truth is that I’ve lost my blogging mojo. I’ve felt like this before…I’ve stared at a blank page, stared at my keyboard, and then shut it all down, telling myself I’d come back the next day when the inspiration kicked in. It never did though, and last time I felt like this I said my goodbyes and hung up my blogging coat, only to regret it later on.
So…I’m not closing down this time; I’m just trying to convince myself that there are no rules out here and I can do whatever the hell I feel like doing, and whenever I feel like doing it. (Although I’m painfully aware that the longer I stay away and the less effort I put into it, it’ll undoubtedly turn out that I’ll be writing to an audience of one. Hi Mum.)
Work is dire at the moment. I have one of those jobs that could actually be fantastic, but it’s not. Without going into detail (because blogging about work is against the law, ya know), it’s akin to trying to work in a circus - where we have the venue, the animals, the people and the audience, but no trainers, no cages, no rehearsed acts and no one willing to stand up and take control. Blah. But I now have a week’s holiday and I’m hoping I can muster at least some of the passion I felt for it when I started almost a year ago. (Don’t hold your breath.)
Other news from my corner of the world:
Yay! It was Mother’s Day yesterday. I had a lovely day….a lovely roast dinner at my Mum’s, a lovely home made card and a present from Dan, and a nice bottle of wine. Big smiles
I’m painstakingly working on getting my family tree book finished. I have one more loose end to tie up and I ‘m all done. It’s been a 4 year journey, and I’ve loved almost every minute of it.
Spring is springing (but not entirely sprung yet). The daffs are almost out, the frog’s eggs have been laid in abundance, the clouds are puffy white and the sky is blue. I’ve spent the last few days in a t-shirt and no coat. Bring on the summer!
The thing I want to talk about the most isn’t actually about me…it’s about my son.
You all know how proud I am of him – for biting the bullet and giving up a really good job to set up his own business at 20 years old. And he is doing so well…so ridiculously well that I’m in awe of him.
He is going to hate me for doing this, but I want to put up a video. I actually came across this myself two weeks ago, which was three or four months after it was actually aired. He never told me about it. Dan isn’t one to blow his own trumpet (although had I seen this back then, I wouldn’t have worried half as much about him giving up his job).
He has done a lot of work in the last few months which, quite frankly, I’d be bragging about. But he just doesn’t. He gets on with his work, says little to anyone else about it, and gives the average Joe exactly the same amount of time and respect as any famous person he is working or dealing with. (And there are a few.) At 21, I think this is worthy of huge respect, and I love him for the way he has handled himself. I’m not sure I would have treated clients with the same amount of integrity at such a young age.
The man in the video is Monkeylord, aka Rob Chapman. Famous to many, a nobody to others. Either way, I want to give a huge thumbs up to Rob for doing this, and for making a Mum really, really proud.
If you need a website….watch the video and grab the link.
Love you Dan. x
For those of you who have followed me since the beginning (which is coming up to 4 years now) I sincerely apologise for this post.You’ve heard it all before, seen the pictures, had the lowdown, massaged my weary soul, told me it’ll all be ok soon.
For those of you who have followed me for less than 12 months, welcome to my hell….
It’s THAT time again.
It happens every year, round about this time. Actually in 2008 it happened….(let me go and check)…on March 9th. I didn’t log it last year; it was far too stressful for me. It’s happened early this year which means only one thing: things are changing. THEY KNOW SOMETHING WE DON’T.
So, my day started like any other (with a strange, homeless tabby kitten on the end of my bed, another cat on the wardrobe and another cat sitting in last night’s leftovers). And at some point between putting salt in my tea and putting air freshener under my ampits, Dan said “Mum….have you seen what’s going on in the garden?”
And then I knew. Right then, I knew.
And because I’m a brave girl, I ran all the way upstairs and grabbed my camera.
I didn’t grab it for me, I grabbed it for Rob – who misses this every single year. It’s such a shame…if we knew when it was going to happen each year he’d be able to book a day off. Alas, we don’t have a clue. One minute the garden is as it always is during winter; silent and sombre. And the next…..
It’s FROGFEST!!!!
For 364 days of the year, there is nothing. (Well maybe the odd one or two lurking around, but nothing out of the ordinary. But on FROGFEST DAY my garden turns into a brothel of epic proportions.
They croak.
Those slimy, ugly males croak and groan like their lives depend on it. The noise is horrendous.
And then they…ummm….ya know….do their thang.
ALL. DAY. LONG.
The nex day? It’s all over. They’ve gone. Disappeared. Vanished into thin air. As if they’d never even been here.
(I want to know how they all know when the right day to do it is? What happens when they wake up? What do they say? Rob said they all have an orange band on their front legs which to us humans looks like an ordinary orange band, but it’s actually a wristwatch. “Go and look” he said. I didn’t, by the way. But if you know the answer…why they all come back at the same time for just 24 hours, please let me know.)
Ok….pictures for those who haven’t gone back to bed.
I hope you’ve enjoyed your little glimpse into the disgusting activity taking place in my garden right now.
When I’ve recovered, I’ll be back.
In case you hadn’t guessed…..I HATE FROGS.
I just came across this great little site on Ordinary Art’s blog. So I nicked it!
You can go there and ask me any question you want. No logging in, no fuss, just straight to the point nosiness. And it’s completely anonymous, too!
What fun!
So….if there’s anything you’d like to know, which I haven’t shared already in these past 4 years, fire away. I promise to be as honest as the day is long
Here’s the link: click me
On Saturday my son, Dan, was 21.
21? Ohmygod. How can that be? I’m only about 26, aren’t I? Perhaps 27….definitely no more than 30.
Anyway, I woke up early and tidied up, did the dishes, swept and mopped the floor and cleaned the bathroom in preparation for the arrival of a very select few who were invited to share the day with us.
(Ok….I didn’t clean the bathroom. But I did all the rest, so that’s brownie points for me.)
We had a lovely day with people arriving at appropriately spaced intervals until, by tea time, there were just 8 of us, which was perfect for our little shoebox of a house. We ate, we drank, we were merry and we ate cake until my tummy popped the button on my trousers.
(I also sucked lollipops but don’t tell anyone.)
Half way throught the proceedings I received a phone call on my work mobile. I stupidly answered it to discover a boiler had gone down in one of the student flats. Being on 24/7 call, I had to deal with the problem….which I did by saying:
“Ummm…so soory…saturday….nocandoo…blah blah…darling…sweetie. Have a nice night…byeeeeeeee.”
An Indian takeaway arrived at some point after. I’m not sure exactly when because I had fallen asleep on the sofa and apparently I was snoring. I must have been in a really awkward position or something because – for the record – I DO NOT SNORE.
Anyway, I had a wonderful day and night; even though I had to be spoon fed at the end. And I made a mess on Rob’s t-shirt. And Dan’d friend said “Oh my. She snores.”
Dan had a few nice presents, but I have to share one of them.
His friend Emily is an artist and is just starting out and trying to get a name for herself. I saw her work on her website and knew that a portrait would be one of the things I wanted to get Dan. I sent her three photographs….one of me, one of Dan, and one of his Dad. And this is what she did.
I absolutely LOVE IT!
I always thought it would cost a fortune to have something like this done, but check her out if you’d like something similar. She is so inexpensive it’s ridiculous. Here’s the link.
And in the words of Suldog….
Soon…with more better stuff….
