It's finally getting closer and I'm getting a real sense of being on my way. My room looks more than ever like a tornado hit it, but I'm fairly confident that come Sunday most of that dreadful mess will squish into my rucksack to someday adorn the floor of my Japanese bedroom. I went to visit my grandparents yesterday who made me promise not to come home for the funeral if they died while I was away. Old people are so cheerful. Apart from making clear their funeral wishes, they were in good spirits. I got some great stories from Granda about the dangers of being a merchant seaman shipping goods to China in the 'fifties (no problem if you don't mind the police boarding your ship and pointing machine guns at you), the best way to outwit Liberian customs officials when you're in your underwear, and why it's a bad idea to hire zombies.
At the moment I'm loading all my CDs onto my new shiny iPod (so pretty) and wondering how I'd forgotten The It Girl by Sleeper was such a good album. I'm trying not to worry about the fact my passport hasn't turned up yet. If it isn't here tomorrow I'm in trouble.
I've got a mad day tomorrow - I'll be pacing the floor waiting for the post in the morning, then I'm going to Aberdeen to return Andy's DVDs and try to sell my old uni books (I swear they've been breeding) and see if anyone will take my shoddy old laptop off my hands. Then I'm going to go out with Lucy in the evening, which is always great fun.
On Saturday I'm going to spend the day running around like a headless hungover chicken trying to pack, then on Sunday I'm spending all day on the train (because I know how to have fun) and I'm staying with Kate (who I used to live with in Bangkok) on Sunday night. She has promised food and wine. I reckon Monday is going to suck: 5 a.m. start with a hangover, flight at 10. It'll all be worth it in the end - after Monday comes Tuesday.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Strategic Leadership
My longsuffering brother has been trying to teach me how to play poker.
"I have... a pair of flushes."
"No you don't."
"Ok. And remind me, which is higher: flush or straight?"
"Flush."
"Right."
We are playing for pasta shells and this is the most I've handled raw pasta since primary 2. I'm fighting the urge to drown it in PVC glue and stick it to a smeary finger painting.
It might also be worth noting that this is now the fifth time my brother has tried to teach me poker. I think it's going the way of cryptic crosswords and bridge, joining my personal Room 101 list of Things I've Spent Hours Trying to Understand But Leave Me With The Feeling I Will Never Get Back The Wasted Time.
My luck improves when we switch to Texas Hold 'Em. I win the hand with 2 pairs and an ace. I rattle the pasta shells across the table. This isn't a bad way to unwind after a day of chronic beaurocracy.
It has been decreed from On High that our department is no longer City Development. We are now Strategic Leadership. This means at the top people can be promoted without having to demote anyone else (because that looks untidy and we want everyone to play nicely). When in doubt, call in the consultants and create a new department. This looks fine on paper but we quickly realise when we start answering the phones that this is a title no-one's bothered to say aloud up to this point.
"Good morning, stateege- strategiclip - city development." We can't answer the phone without laughing, and we can't say 'strategic leadership' without sounding like we've had several tequilas.
Of course, this begs the question of what strategic leadership actually means or does. Leads strategically? How? With a chessboard, sat nav or a piece of string? And if we only have strategic leadership now, this implies that earlier leadership was perhaps lacking strategy (like the Scotland football team). Did we have crap leadership, or barely adequate leadership? Wandering around in circles leadership or watching the clouds leadership?
Questions, questions. Thankfully I don't have to deal with them because I only have two more days of work and I think I can avoid answering the phone until then.
"I have... a pair of flushes."
"No you don't."
"Ok. And remind me, which is higher: flush or straight?"
"Flush."
"Right."
We are playing for pasta shells and this is the most I've handled raw pasta since primary 2. I'm fighting the urge to drown it in PVC glue and stick it to a smeary finger painting.
It might also be worth noting that this is now the fifth time my brother has tried to teach me poker. I think it's going the way of cryptic crosswords and bridge, joining my personal Room 101 list of Things I've Spent Hours Trying to Understand But Leave Me With The Feeling I Will Never Get Back The Wasted Time.
My luck improves when we switch to Texas Hold 'Em. I win the hand with 2 pairs and an ace. I rattle the pasta shells across the table. This isn't a bad way to unwind after a day of chronic beaurocracy.
It has been decreed from On High that our department is no longer City Development. We are now Strategic Leadership. This means at the top people can be promoted without having to demote anyone else (because that looks untidy and we want everyone to play nicely). When in doubt, call in the consultants and create a new department. This looks fine on paper but we quickly realise when we start answering the phones that this is a title no-one's bothered to say aloud up to this point.
"Good morning, stateege- strategiclip - city development." We can't answer the phone without laughing, and we can't say 'strategic leadership' without sounding like we've had several tequilas.
Of course, this begs the question of what strategic leadership actually means or does. Leads strategically? How? With a chessboard, sat nav or a piece of string? And if we only have strategic leadership now, this implies that earlier leadership was perhaps lacking strategy (like the Scotland football team). Did we have crap leadership, or barely adequate leadership? Wandering around in circles leadership or watching the clouds leadership?
Questions, questions. Thankfully I don't have to deal with them because I only have two more days of work and I think I can avoid answering the phone until then.
Monday, March 06, 2006
You Will Make a Fine Pair of Mittens, Cat
Dot, our next-door neighbour, dropped in to return a DVD. "Your cat's been in that tree for a while," she commented.
Me, Mum and Malcolm looked at the cat.
"She's fine," I said. The cat sat in a fork in the tree, looking stupid. It does that a lot. To be fair, she does also fall off things a lot and so probably isn't the best cat to sit in thin, whippy branches at the top of a tall flowering cherry tree.
"She's stuck," Mum groaned, watching as a bird landed on the next branch and snickered at the cat. "Go do something."
I went outside and started climbing the tree. The cat eyed me smugly as if to say, you look absurd. I realise this is revenge for the mice.
Biscuit is on a one-cat mission to rid the world of mice. I don't have a problem with cats eating mice (it's what they're there for), but Biscuit doesn't eat the whole mouse. No-one likes finding a mouse head under the table first thing in the morning. It came through the catflap with a mouse the other night, undetered by me yelling, "No! Eat it outside!" and let it run around the kitchen for a while before it escaped into the lobby. Cat chased the mouse under the edge of the front door, and I shut the cat in the livingroom so I could get rid of the mouse. Easy, I thought. I opened the front door and the mouse weaved unsteadily down the pavement, fur sticking out at strange angles and soaked in cat dribble.
I was reading the next morning and heard a faint scrabbling noise. No, more like a mousey nibbling noise, and very nearby. At first I thought it was under the floorboards, but then I realised it was in the room. I picked up Mum's handbag, took it to the back door, and very carefully peered inside. In the front pocket there was a small (entirely different) mouse nibbling a tampon. It had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. The cat came to see what all the fuss was about, saw the mouse - ah, that's where it went - and leapt at the bag. Tampons spilled all over the step and the mouse tried to escape again. I grabbed the cat in one hand and the mouse in the other, struggling to keep them in my grip. I threw the cat into the kitchen and slammed the door, clapped my hands together to stop the mouse escaping too close to the house and, still in my pajamas, briskly took the mouse to the bottom of the garden. It hid behind a terracotta pot and didn't ask for the rest of its tampon back, which is just as well. The cat had sulked all day and seemed to be planning revenge.
"You're a bloody stupid cat," I told it, wedging my foot against a sturdy branch. The cat hissed at me and wobbled.
"Be careful!" Mum squealed. I think she was talking to the cat.
I tried to pick up the cat. It growled and tried to get its footing in a knot of honeysuckle which bent under the weight. Time for the big guns. I took the secateurs from my back pocket and started pruning the honeysuckle around the cat, who watched me with utter disdain. With enough of the honeysuckle out of the way, I lunged for the yowling cat, scooped her around the belly and dropped her down to Mum.
"Ow! Look at that. Little besom," Mum wiped the scratches on her arm. I half-climbed, half-fell out of the tree. The cat fluffed her voluminous tail at me as if to say, now we are even. She stalked off in the direction of the field, her favourite hunting ground for mice.
Me, Mum and Malcolm looked at the cat.
"She's fine," I said. The cat sat in a fork in the tree, looking stupid. It does that a lot. To be fair, she does also fall off things a lot and so probably isn't the best cat to sit in thin, whippy branches at the top of a tall flowering cherry tree.
"She's stuck," Mum groaned, watching as a bird landed on the next branch and snickered at the cat. "Go do something."
I went outside and started climbing the tree. The cat eyed me smugly as if to say, you look absurd. I realise this is revenge for the mice.
Biscuit is on a one-cat mission to rid the world of mice. I don't have a problem with cats eating mice (it's what they're there for), but Biscuit doesn't eat the whole mouse. No-one likes finding a mouse head under the table first thing in the morning. It came through the catflap with a mouse the other night, undetered by me yelling, "No! Eat it outside!" and let it run around the kitchen for a while before it escaped into the lobby. Cat chased the mouse under the edge of the front door, and I shut the cat in the livingroom so I could get rid of the mouse. Easy, I thought. I opened the front door and the mouse weaved unsteadily down the pavement, fur sticking out at strange angles and soaked in cat dribble.
I was reading the next morning and heard a faint scrabbling noise. No, more like a mousey nibbling noise, and very nearby. At first I thought it was under the floorboards, but then I realised it was in the room. I picked up Mum's handbag, took it to the back door, and very carefully peered inside. In the front pocket there was a small (entirely different) mouse nibbling a tampon. It had the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. The cat came to see what all the fuss was about, saw the mouse - ah, that's where it went - and leapt at the bag. Tampons spilled all over the step and the mouse tried to escape again. I grabbed the cat in one hand and the mouse in the other, struggling to keep them in my grip. I threw the cat into the kitchen and slammed the door, clapped my hands together to stop the mouse escaping too close to the house and, still in my pajamas, briskly took the mouse to the bottom of the garden. It hid behind a terracotta pot and didn't ask for the rest of its tampon back, which is just as well. The cat had sulked all day and seemed to be planning revenge.
"You're a bloody stupid cat," I told it, wedging my foot against a sturdy branch. The cat hissed at me and wobbled.
"Be careful!" Mum squealed. I think she was talking to the cat.
I tried to pick up the cat. It growled and tried to get its footing in a knot of honeysuckle which bent under the weight. Time for the big guns. I took the secateurs from my back pocket and started pruning the honeysuckle around the cat, who watched me with utter disdain. With enough of the honeysuckle out of the way, I lunged for the yowling cat, scooped her around the belly and dropped her down to Mum.
"Ow! Look at that. Little besom," Mum wiped the scratches on her arm. I half-climbed, half-fell out of the tree. The cat fluffed her voluminous tail at me as if to say, now we are even. She stalked off in the direction of the field, her favourite hunting ground for mice.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Bucking Faltic
Snow wraps horizontally past the window, but it's been doing that a lot recently so I barely pay it any attention. I've had two days off work this week and been sent home early twice. There are some advantages to living in the sticks after all.
I went outside on Friday afternoon and made an experimental snowball. It packed perfectly. Hmm. I rolled the snowball a little. As it got heavier, it sank deeper and grew more quickly. Aha... In five minutes I had a ball of snow three foot high and it seemed a shame to waste it. I called for reinforcements.
"Come in the garden and help me."
"You're making a snowman."
"Of course."
"You're twenty-four."
"So?"
"You're making a snowman!"
"It's a perfectly sensible thing to do. It'll be fun."
"You're only asking because you won't be able to lift the head onto the body."
Damn. "If you help me with the snowman, I'll help you build an igloo."
My brother paused for a moment. "Deal."
The snowman turned into something of a six-foot snow hunk, but the igloo was beset with structural difficulties (I blame flimsy materials) and it sagged in a manner not unlike the Scottish parliament. It lasted a day and collapsed beautifully.
Mum has been away this weekend, so naturally me and my brother have trashed the house. Or rather, I've trashed the house. I managed to drop a glass of red wine in such a way that it bounced and sprayed wine everywhere, including my eyes, the carpet, the wall, the chair, and the ceiling.
"How the hell did you manage that?"
"Shut up. Ow. It stings."
The wine marks won't come off the wall - scrubbing removed the paint but left the wine. Mum will be convinced this is the product of some wild orgy. The worst part is I was only reading a book at the time. I lead a wild life, I do.
I went outside on Friday afternoon and made an experimental snowball. It packed perfectly. Hmm. I rolled the snowball a little. As it got heavier, it sank deeper and grew more quickly. Aha... In five minutes I had a ball of snow three foot high and it seemed a shame to waste it. I called for reinforcements.
"Come in the garden and help me."
"You're making a snowman."
"Of course."
"You're twenty-four."
"So?"
"You're making a snowman!"
"It's a perfectly sensible thing to do. It'll be fun."
"You're only asking because you won't be able to lift the head onto the body."
Damn. "If you help me with the snowman, I'll help you build an igloo."
My brother paused for a moment. "Deal."
The snowman turned into something of a six-foot snow hunk, but the igloo was beset with structural difficulties (I blame flimsy materials) and it sagged in a manner not unlike the Scottish parliament. It lasted a day and collapsed beautifully.
Mum has been away this weekend, so naturally me and my brother have trashed the house. Or rather, I've trashed the house. I managed to drop a glass of red wine in such a way that it bounced and sprayed wine everywhere, including my eyes, the carpet, the wall, the chair, and the ceiling.
"How the hell did you manage that?"
"Shut up. Ow. It stings."
The wine marks won't come off the wall - scrubbing removed the paint but left the wine. Mum will be convinced this is the product of some wild orgy. The worst part is I was only reading a book at the time. I lead a wild life, I do.
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