May 7, 2015
The problem with getting involved in something that leaves you stupidbusy for weeks, is that – when it’s finally over, and the thing you rashly got involved with a few days later is also over, and you’ve had the weekend when you didn’t manage to do anything except look dazed and delete an accumulation of emails, some of which you discover you subsequently still need* – then you discover that not only do you now have an accumulated month’s worth of stuff to do and about two weeks to do it in, but that your brain has quietly fried itself under the strain and is no longer capable of retaining all the things it needs to do.
Which is presumably why I have in recent days managed to schedule something on a Monday morning forgetting that every Monday morning is spent crouched over a keyboard frantically summarising 700 bike blog posts into one not-exactly coherent narrative, forgotten to do something I’d promised someone I’d do about a week ago, forgotten to pick up cocoa on my way back from Bigtown this afternoon, which is a problem when you’ve invited several hungry cyclists to join you for a 46-mile anniversaire jaunt at the weekend and you need to feed them brownies, and – just now – forgotten I’d left the washing out on the line with an overnight frost forecast (and while I’m at it, what’s with all the frost in MAY, Weather Gods?)
At least I did not forget to vote, although I did forget to post this in time to remind anyone else to vote, so there’s no point in linking to this.
Meanwhile, if I’ve promised to do something and not got back to you about it, now might be a good time to send a little reminder …
* Fortunately every email anyone sends these days includes the text of all preceding emails in it so all you have to do is wait for someone to send you a reply (and can also be quite illuminating when they get forwarded on to us trailing unintentionally revealing content…)
March 3, 2015
We’ve been visiting my parents’ for the last few days, enjoying an enforced broadband holiday due to either incompetence on BT’s part or the incredible coincidence of my parents’ router stopping working at exactly the same time as their engineers were doing something to the lines locally.
I’d love to say that I took the opportunity to free myself from the tyranny of the screen, reconnect with my loved ones, and made the most of this opportunity to get on with the things that really matter; I’ll leave it up to you to imagine how much time I instead spent pecking away at emails on my phone and fleeing to the free WiFi (but rather expensive beverages) of Costa Coffee in Berwick when things got out of hand.
However, it has allowed me to boil my blogging down to the following concentrated essence. I might not have gained much time out of the experience, but look how much time you have saved:
Potato day. Starts at 11:00 am. Do not, whatever you do, arrive any later than, say 11:15…
You’ve got to love a town that reserves a special gate just for you
Home again. Clouds gathering over Bigtownshire, as per usual
February 12, 2015
So you’re in a meeting, and there’s a plate of biscuits in the middle of the table, and you’re the only one who cycled there, and it took you 45 minutes and you had to cane it into a headwind because you were late. Everyone else is doing a sterling job of ignoring the biscuits but finally somebody does start passing the biscuits round but in the opposite direction from you, and some people take a biscuit and pass them on, and some politely refuse a biscuit and pass them on, and just as it’s coming up to you, someone takes the plate, refuses a biscuit and puts the plate down beside them without passing it on.
Seriously, how long before you crack and reach for the biscuits? I think I lasted 20 minutes. In my defence, some of them were chocolate ones.
Sometimes I think all meetings with the council are not so much meetings but carefully staged psychological experiments. Which, thinking about it, would explain a lot.
January 24, 2015
It sometimes seems as if the embuggerisation of modern life – the process by which large corporations gradually shave away at the corners of customer service in defence of their bottom line by making their customers do the work that they used to pay staff to do while simultaneously trying to squeeze as much cash out of them as they can – is unstoppable and unrelenting. But sometimes, just sometimes, the customers fight back. And sometimes, just sometimes, they actually win. And it seems that one such tiny victory has been acheived in Bigtown, at least for now.
Normally I avoid buying my paper in WH Smith ever since they abandoned the honesty box system in favour of making you stand in an enormous queue made only longer by the need for the poor cashiers to upsell something to every single customer (would you like a bottle of water for 50p with your paper? Unfeasibly large bar of chocolate? Or how about a useless voucher that gives you 50% off everything except newspapers, books, magazines, unfeasibly large bars of chocolate and indeed everything else we actually stock in this shop?). Then, just before Christmas they brought in self-service tills, an act of genius in a shop that sells things like newspapers (which are often bought with vouchers which are enormously fiddly to use on those machines) and tobacco – which now has to be kept under the counter.
Naturally, the good people of Bigtown studiously ignored the self-service tills, as is only right and proper, and simply queued up for the remaining tills, and when I went in this morning it seems as if the customers might have won. Bigtown WH Smith still has the loathed self-service tills in place, but when I went in this morning I found they had simply turned one of them round and put a cashier behind it to ‘help’ the customers by basically scanning everything through herself, taking their money, dealing with the vouchers and issuing receipts. Presumably as far as head office is concerned, the self-service tills are doing wonderfully well – and as far as Bigtown is concerned, things are back to normal. Indeed, we’re rather better off than before, because the machines aren’t expected to do any upselling, so we no longer have to fend off huge bars of chocolate when we’re in a hurry for our change, although we do still get the useless vouchers. All they have to do now is bring back the honesty box system and my life will be complete, although I suspect what will actually happen is that head office will discover the ruse and crack down on it, and we – customers and staff – will be re-educated to use the self-service tills if it kills us all. It is, after all, the modern way.
January 22, 2015
I suspect just by posting this I will reveal just how very unsuited I am to yoga – no doubt I should be all about letting go of material things and concentrating on inner beauty and all that – but there is a problem: someone has stolen my spot in yoga class. I’m not sure if this is the normal way of things in yoga classes, but everyone else has been coming for aaaages and they all have their favoured spots, so newcomers get directed to a free place, usually the emergency newbie spot beside the teacher, but I lucked out early on when someone dropped out and I got a yoga-mat-sized slice of prime real estate in the corner under the heater and right by the mirror so I can discreetly check that my downward dog is channelling a stretching whippet rather than, say, a giraffe at waterhole, in so far as my hamstrings will allow.
All was going well until I had to take a break from yoga due to my hernia op. The first week back after Christmas, the class wasn’t very full and I could resume my place without any problem. But then last week – disaster. The class was rammed with both all the old timers and some newcomers and when I got there SOMEONE WAS IN MY SPOT. To add insult to injury she was wearing a top with ‘Yoga Bunny’ on it, which I feel is a low blow. I think she may have started coming while I was away and been assigned my favoured place, meaning I am now back to square one, relegated back into the newcomer’s spot alongside someone who was there for the first time. Or worse – for this week not only was yoga bunny still in my spot, still wearing the yoga bunny top, but I was assigned to a temporary place because someone couldn’t make it that week. I am now effectively homeless in my yoga class, a transient, carting my yoga mat from place to place, with a new neighbour to get used to every time. This is seriously unsettling
The only solution, other than turning up half an hour early and reclaiming my territory that way, which I suspect is a major breach of yoga etiquette and besides may start an arms race I can’t hope to win, is to wait it out and hope that yoga bunny sees the light and takes up pilates or Zumba or something more suitable, leaving me with vacant possession. Barring any further surgery, I should be able to outwait her. She may be more punctual than me, but I have both time and patience on my side, and besides, I’m not having to do yoga with me glaring at me resentfully from an inferior temporary spot in the draught from the door, if you see what I mean. At least it gives me an incentive to turn up rather more regularly than I was in the past, which should be good for my neck and back. Or at least it would be, if only I could ungrit my teeth…
December 9, 2014
Hold the front page – the other half and I had a Christmas party to go to yesterday evening (drinks, nibbles and chit chat rather than loud music and dubious substances, and the sad truth is I prefer it that way these days and if I’m honest probably always have). As I got out my sole remaining party outfit I reflected that it dated back to the last millennium. Indeed, I may very well have seen in the millennium in it, come to think of it. One of the advantages of regular cycling is that you can at least still fit into the clothes you bought in your twenties. And one of the advantages of not going to parties very often is that you don’t wear out your party clothes, although cycle chic or no cycle chic, I don’t recommend that you do too much cycling in them if you want them to last.
Growing up I always hoped I’d become one of those women with a ‘unique, timeless style’ that people always seem to admire, even as they chase down the latest ephemeral trend themselves. In my head, I pictured this as a process whereby, perhaps at the unimaginably old age of 40, I would go out to a number of sophisticated shops and purchase an incredibly chic wardrobe of timeless classics, accessorise them with something unique that only I would have thought of, and stride off, impeccably put together, into a tasteful sunset. What I have discovered actually happens is that you stop buying any clothes unless you happen across the kind of clothes you feel comfortable in, regardless of what actually happens to be in fashion. And then at the ripe age of 45 you do a quick tally in your head and realise you have a total of five grey jumpers in subtly different styles and shades – and then do a recount and discover that it is in fact six. And that your idea of the new fashion season is the big switch from grey jumpers to checked shirts in the summer, and back to grey jumpers (black jumpers are also acceptable) in the winter. And you only read the fashion pages to a) laugh and b) discover when grey jumpers / flat shoes / checked shirts are in again so you can rush out to shops to stock up. And that you are in fact fine with that.
At the moment, I’m in two minds as to whether this means I have at last achieved a ‘unique timeless style’ of my own – or that I am, in fact, a bloke.
In other news Hoggs of Fife are advertising their moleskin trousers as having a ‘new fashionable low-rise cut’. Disaster. I may have to get myself a shotgun after all…