In Which Our Heroine Talks About Cheating
Think back, boys and girls, and remember the days when this blog was about "Hey, today I'm in Outer Mongolia, blind as a bat and cruising around on a train negotiating for raspberries when it stops?" Someday I'll get back to that kind of thing, but for now there seems to be a reactionary trend in what I'm writing. Maybe it is because I am off work "ill" (yeah. Right. I'm not ill enough to be off work. I've told them this repeatedly. My doctor MADE me take two weeks off. Then Occupational Health asked for more time to do assessments. That's taken three weeks, and then after yesterday's two and a half hour assessment, there is now a follow up, and that's not scheduled until a week from Tuesday. Even my boss is starting to wonder when and how I'll get back to work and even though I have taken back to rowing every day, a little farther and further each time, frankly I'm bored out of my brain. And that's with having completed another diploma assessment. Welcome to Europe. I'm begging to go back to work, I've been off for just over a month now and I'm on full pay and accruing vacation time because somehow between now and next June 1 I have to take off six and a half weeks. I'm floored.) but at any rate today's rant and rave is something that has been percolating through discussions round the boathouse of late is whether or not Dwain Chambers should be allowed to go to the Olympics. It is now official, he's not going and I for one am glad.
There's a lot of talk about redemption, etc in all this and while I'm all for rehabilitation and believe firmly in the concept of redemption, I'm also all for consequences of actions. Particularly intentional actions, such as taking illegal substances for performance enhancement. As with most crimes and misdemeanor, he did it because he thought he wouldn't get caught, and indeed he almost didn't. As doping gets more sophisticated, testing and monitoring are constantly a step behind in catching up, and they stayed a step behind Dwaine Chambers. But there are consequences, which he knew would happen if he got caught. He took his suspension, and now he fought the ban. What was the argument?
Restraint of trade.
Restraint of his right to earn an income.
This is where my blood pressure goes sky high. There are so many reasons why this argument fails for me.
1) As the judge stressed, the Olympics are supposed to be an amateur event. The point of it being amateur is that they're not pro. That isn't as much of an issue in track (which is something that then always makes me wonder why there is so much drugging happening in the sport - it isn' t as though someone is signing high money contracts to run the anchor leg of the 2000m relay for Wigan Athletic.) There is no money to be made from the event itself. Of course, if he had won gold or something I suppose there could be endorsement opportunities, but not necessarily. But he'd earn more staying in the UK and getting a job, not racing amateur athletics.
2) As alluded to above, nothing about his going to the Olympics or not prevents him from getting what my gran would call a "proper" job, even in athletics. He's still free to coach, etc. The question of who would hire him, tainted as he is, is another question (and one which I hope would be posed by those who woudl consider getting him as a corporate endorsement) since of course it is roughly equivalent to having Barry Bonds be your guy - the halo of suspicion is all around. Just what's in that gel he's rubbing on you, eh? And of course, like the rest of us, when what we want job wise doesn't happen he's got the opportunity to wait tables, work in a coffee shop and do what it takes to pay the bills, including slinging hash.
3) This is a self created problem. He took the drugs, and then he got caught. There are many professions where if you shoot yourself in the foot intentionally, that's it. You're out of that profession, for the good of the profession and often the public so as to maintain trust. If I, as a solicitor, wander around committing fraud, particualrly with client accounts, and I am caught you better believe I am going to be struck off the register until the day I die. Teachers who kiss their pupils, ditto. Doctors who kill their patients aren't going to be allowed to sign back up. Going to court then claiming "restraint of trade" isn't going to wash in any of these situations, and I'm glad it wasn't permitted here.
There are all sorts of rights in the world, and I'm glad some of them get enforced sufficiently. But there is no right to act like an idiot and be rewarded for it, even if it does happen all too often. If Dwaine Chambers is serving me coffee the next time I turn up at Cafe Nero, I'll admit it now - I'm not tipping.
Love
Anne
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
In Which Our Heroine Ponders Conclusions
In my job, I spend a lot of time effectively fact checking. I'm not going to put something in a document unless I can back it up. The law says X and relevantly Y is what we've got on our hands, with a bit of nuance at point Z. In the kind of documents I have to deal with, you can't just assert, you've got to back up every statement until you get to your conclusion. Making it up as you go along is just not an option. Tempting? Sho nuff, but just not an option.
This is a trait that then goes forward into the rest of my life. If I'm going to fight with you about something, I'm going to make sure I have facts, etc to back it up. Maybe not quite as thoroughly as I might do in a work document, but I despise saying "oh,you remember that time when something sort of like this happened. You know..." Which is actually a bit of a problem as while I can recite entire plots of books, or poems or the facts of a case or song lyrics, actually naming a title, band name, case name or often a person's name is beyond me. I'm forever having to dig these things up, usually on line.
I was doing this today to respond to this conversation here and couldn't remember the name of the murder victim (may he rest in peace). As a consequence, I turned to ever trusty Google to find the name of it. Now, my Google-fu is well marked upon. I can find just about anything that's out there on the 'net with just a bit of information. There are a couple of legendary search stories out there, and that was before I got really good.***** I can talk about those later. This was a fairly mainstream news story at the time, and was relatively easy to find, I just had to come up with the search terms that would trigger a hit.
But when I had typed in "child rape murder kidnap Massachusetts" and hit return, it occured to me "Who will or could know that I've typed this in and searched on this topic?" Sure, I have a good explanation, and the truth should in most circumstances set you or I free. But what would I have to explain? And to who?
This is where I get staunch in my defense of civil liberties again, and for the same old reason. The standard line that comes up is "if you have nothing to hide, what's the problem?" Well, I have nothing to hide here, and even if I did I just confessed to it to all and sundry what I've been searching for on the internet, but I still have a problem.
All kinds of information gathering can be had, and facts are facts. But facts are totally useless without conclusions. And the intelligence putting together those conclusions can be completely at fault. Let me give you a set of facts, all true. You have a person who:
1) Has been reading the Koran. In fact, studying portions of it in depth.
2) Has been to China, Russia, Paraguay (a Hamas hotspot), and Columbia all within the space of a few months.
3) Is closely related to a known terrorist who operated on US soil.
4) Had close ties to someone on the 9.11 planes; and
5) Has an FBI file
you'd be forgiven for thinking that person is precisely the sort of person who should be detained in Guantanamo and waterboarded until they confessed to everything up to and including the kidnapping of the Lindberg baby. This is particularly when you find out that their most recent Google search involved rape and murder of children. But therein lies the problem - they are the same person. The same person who has a perfectly valid and non-sordid reason for conducting what at face value could be a rather lurid search on Google also has perfectly valid expl
anations for all those five files. I was backpacking through Asia and South America for a year. My time in China was spent with James, climbing Taoist holy mountains, getting a crash course in Taoism, Confuscionism and Bhuddism (since that's what you do when you're hanging with a good friend who's there researching his next books on East Asian religions, which if you're keen, you can find here), eating food of far uncertain origin, and petting pandas. Paraguay may indeed be a Hamas hotspot, but if you read down below a few years back you'll see my thoughts on it. Everyone knows about my half brother, and of course that explains the FBI file since I was three, when I was far more of a danger than I am now, mostly due to my habit of holding my breath until I passed out if I didn't go my own way. Somewhere between my profoundly pacifist beliefs and the fact that I am one of the most easily identified individuals around ("She went that way officer. She's six foot five. Can't miss her. Cracking bust.") I'm about as likely to commit a crime other than a motoring offense than I am to suddenly take the lead in a Broadway revival of "Kiss of the Spider Woman." Oh, and the study of the Koran? Anyone who's interested is more than welcome to a copy of my paper on "The Concept of the Mutawadir in Sharia Law Compared to the Hearsay Rule." If you can't sleep, it is better than Sominex. Every reason, completely innocent explanation. But if you don't have the explanation, just the "bare facts" I'm really quite dangerous. And that's my concern. There's no need for me to explain my every activity to someone if I haven't contravened any laws. I have enough knowledge of FISA (the laws, not the international rowing organisation) and the terrorism laws to know what, and how, the data is gathered. I know enough about the internet to know that through cache, etc, nothing ever really disappears. There's all kinds of issues we need to worry about, and the recent passing of the surveillance bill in the U.S. Congress scares me senseless. But I'm still not sure where we can draw the lines, either. I'm certainly not going to trust major corporations to spy on me or protect my data - they have no reason to do so apart from their commercial interests and commercial interests can of course be bought out by the highest, or at least higher, bidder. But commercial companies don't have the ability to lock me up and torture me any further than the torture of "I want THAT one" which I usually have the ability to resist. At a certain level, I am resigned though opposed to my data being collected by the government. But I don't fear the collection. I fear the analysis of it by people who, to paraphrase Buzz Aldrin (I think) build rockets with thousands of gallons of rocket fuel by contracting out to the cheapest bidder. The intelligence of the people doing the analysing may not be enough to save us, and that is the bigger fear.
Gosh, I'm being depressing today!
Love
Anne
*****I think the ultimate of this is about six years ago. My then boyfriend described a film he'd seen when he was a teenager on PBS. It was about junkyards in Appalachia. He wanted to track it down. He was a tech guy, talking to tech guys about this. They couldn't find it. It took me half an hour. Turns out even if you knew the name of the film (which he didn't until I found it) there were at that time only three whole references to it on the internet. He has never doubted my Google-fu again, and now if people need it found, they just ask me to find it.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Ok, there is a whole very mucho long post already half drafted about my recent road trip to Alnwick, Lindisfarne, Hadrian's Wall and the Farne Islands, but in the interim I'm too totally worked up about this Noodlehead.
I spend a small portion of my job (say half an hour every morning) taking items that violate a company's trademarks off of ebay. Many of these are innocent mistakes by people, and I include in the takedown notice that we will not object to the item being re-listed so long as the company's marks are removed from the advertisement.
Roughly 5% of the take down notices wind up with someone e-mailing me about it. Of those, half are people going "I didn't know! I'm so sorry! Please help me!" to which I write back, very nicely and truthfully that as noted in the takedown notice that if they re-list the item without reference to our marks they'll never hear from us again, along with further explanations of trademark law if they're not quite understanding what happened and why.
The other half are abusive to varying degrees. This can range from the rather classic "ebay doesn't understand their own business and you don't understand yours either." (Ah, the perpetual favourite of "no one understands anything but me. But I'm going to use their services anyway.") to one guy so abusive that I actually had to hang up on him after four warnings that if the abuse didn't stop, I was going to terminate the call. Points to the woman who drafted the single most sarcastic response to anything I have ever seen, though. That was good for its sheer entertainment value.
And the constant refrain in the abuse is dual. First, Why are you picking on me? Why aren't you picking on everyone else?
As a matter of fact, we are. We do not discuss your case with other people and we do not discuss their case with you, but what on God's green Earth makes you think that loads of professionals want to sit around and of all the infringing stuff out there, you're the only one they're going to single out? As I always wind up saying to people in take downs, and as directly stated in the article IF YOU DO NOT PROTECT YOUR TRADEMARKS YOU LOSE THEM. This is fundamental to the practice of trademark law. Fun-da-freakin-mental. And you can't adequately protect it with one random enforcement and not all the others. Protection is protection. Commercial use in any form is a massive issue.
Secondly is the other classic, applicable to so many protests of this type, "I don't feel I did anything wrong." This is usually used by people who've been caught absolutely bang to rights in error, and they'd just rather tell you how why, in contrary to years of trademark law and in defiance of the judicial opinions of many learned judges over centuries and indeed will all bow to your deliberately ignorant "feeling" of what is right and wrong, which seems to be primarily informed entirely on whether or not someone is trying to stop you from doing whatever it is.
What this woman did was wrong. Now, granted, there is a wide scope of wrong in the world. Going 31 in a 30 zone is wrong, and so is going 80 in the same zone. The 80 is measurably more wrong. But that doesn't stop the 31 being wrong as well. But there is generally a lesser penalty for the 31, and that's what happened here. When people started making a profit by selling these items on ebay, the BBC stepped in, said "now look, this is wrong and we're just going to have to stop it at source. Terribly sorry." They didn't sue her, they haven't asked her for damages, they've not broken her knitting fingers, they just said "look, this needs to stop." And with having the law on their side, they've got the potential of "if you don't stop, well, then we can make you." Pattern down, should have been end of story on all sides. It isn't as though they even took away the items which originally infringed and she knit in the first place.
But no. She's got to scream that she's being singled out, which of course she is not. And she's got to talk about how her deliberately ignorant (and continued deliberately ignorant) stance doesn't feel wrong to her. Would she feel the same way if other people were making a profit on her work, while simultaneously putting her at risk of losing her work altogether? Heck no. That wouldn't feel good to her. But then again, we've already determined that it isn't about feelings boys and girls.
Every trademark lawyer I know read this article and said "well done BBC." Ditto publishers, who deal with issues like this all the time. But hey, if you want to keep staying ignorant, well then I hope it keeps feeling good because it won't stay that way for long.
I spend a small portion of my job (say half an hour every morning) taking items that violate a company's trademarks off of ebay. Many of these are innocent mistakes by people, and I include in the takedown notice that we will not object to the item being re-listed so long as the company's marks are removed from the advertisement.
Roughly 5% of the take down notices wind up with someone e-mailing me about it. Of those, half are people going "I didn't know! I'm so sorry! Please help me!" to which I write back, very nicely and truthfully that as noted in the takedown notice that if they re-list the item without reference to our marks they'll never hear from us again, along with further explanations of trademark law if they're not quite understanding what happened and why.
The other half are abusive to varying degrees. This can range from the rather classic "ebay doesn't understand their own business and you don't understand yours either." (Ah, the perpetual favourite of "no one understands anything but me. But I'm going to use their services anyway.") to one guy so abusive that I actually had to hang up on him after four warnings that if the abuse didn't stop, I was going to terminate the call. Points to the woman who drafted the single most sarcastic response to anything I have ever seen, though. That was good for its sheer entertainment value.
And the constant refrain in the abuse is dual. First, Why are you picking on me? Why aren't you picking on everyone else?
As a matter of fact, we are. We do not discuss your case with other people and we do not discuss their case with you, but what on God's green Earth makes you think that loads of professionals want to sit around and of all the infringing stuff out there, you're the only one they're going to single out? As I always wind up saying to people in take downs, and as directly stated in the article IF YOU DO NOT PROTECT YOUR TRADEMARKS YOU LOSE THEM. This is fundamental to the practice of trademark law. Fun-da-freakin-mental. And you can't adequately protect it with one random enforcement and not all the others. Protection is protection. Commercial use in any form is a massive issue.
Secondly is the other classic, applicable to so many protests of this type, "I don't feel I did anything wrong." This is usually used by people who've been caught absolutely bang to rights in error, and they'd just rather tell you how why, in contrary to years of trademark law and in defiance of the judicial opinions of many learned judges over centuries and indeed will all bow to your deliberately ignorant "feeling" of what is right and wrong, which seems to be primarily informed entirely on whether or not someone is trying to stop you from doing whatever it is.
What this woman did was wrong. Now, granted, there is a wide scope of wrong in the world. Going 31 in a 30 zone is wrong, and so is going 80 in the same zone. The 80 is measurably more wrong. But that doesn't stop the 31 being wrong as well. But there is generally a lesser penalty for the 31, and that's what happened here. When people started making a profit by selling these items on ebay, the BBC stepped in, said "now look, this is wrong and we're just going to have to stop it at source. Terribly sorry." They didn't sue her, they haven't asked her for damages, they've not broken her knitting fingers, they just said "look, this needs to stop." And with having the law on their side, they've got the potential of "if you don't stop, well, then we can make you." Pattern down, should have been end of story on all sides. It isn't as though they even took away the items which originally infringed and she knit in the first place.
But no. She's got to scream that she's being singled out, which of course she is not. And she's got to talk about how her deliberately ignorant (and continued deliberately ignorant) stance doesn't feel wrong to her. Would she feel the same way if other people were making a profit on her work, while simultaneously putting her at risk of losing her work altogether? Heck no. That wouldn't feel good to her. But then again, we've already determined that it isn't about feelings boys and girls.
Every trademark lawyer I know read this article and said "well done BBC." Ditto publishers, who deal with issues like this all the time. But hey, if you want to keep staying ignorant, well then I hope it keeps feeling good because it won't stay that way for long.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
In Which Our Heroine Tries to Get Back in the Blogging Habit
Crumbs, it has been almost a year. And for some reason the e-mails are now coming in, virtually ordering me to update the blog. Who knew I had fans? But I guess I do.
So I'll start with an e-mail that arrived yesterday.
"WELL!
After 2 weeks of rowing with the [insert name of guilty party's team here], I decided sweep rowing was NOT for me (was it ever?). Boy did the coach make a mistake putting me in the double one day when the boat lineups were off - as soon as I sculled I knew it was over (I think it does something to your brain - it felt 100 times better with 2 oars). So I took a captain's test this morning and am transitioning over to sculling a single in the mornings and rowing recreationally with the team 3 days a week in the afternoon. I bought a bike with clipless pedals and traverse traffic to and from the boathouse. I now have absolutely no life, no life outside of rowing and can't stay up past 10pm on a Saturday night because I'm that wiped.
You would be proud.
I don't know why it turns into such an obsession so quickly, but I've never felt better - it's like an addiction and I don't understand why I haven't been rowing these past 3 years. I feel like my life was on hold or something and I finally got it back.
YAY!
Thanks for the info - had we not talked I don't think I would have ever got back into this.
YAAAAAAAAY!
THANK YOU! :-)
xox -Mike"
[Message edited to take out identifying information and location.]
Now, I love Mike like a big sister (which is a bit pointless, as he already has two fabulous big sisters provided biologically), and of course as my friend all I want for him is to be happy. But the line where he says "I have no life...you would be so proud" cracks me into hysterical laughter every time. I guess that's the coaching demeanour, and that is how Mike and I became friends. I was his coach, and I loved coaching him. Not just because he won every race he entered, although that was fun too. "Surrender Dorothy!" But I do know how he feels. After some rough times in the 8 this spring, and now three weeks off being ill, I've finally climbed back into the single since getting Weil's Disease last year. I suck. Suck, suck, suck. And I love it so much. Even the sucking. How did I live without doing this every day?
Well, I guess I lived with a few more inches on my hips from lack of exercise, but that's not really the point. I'm not addicted to alcohol, I've never smoked and I've never taken a drug I wasn't prescribed, but if they tried to treat the rowing addiction, they'd have a massive battle on their hands.
More soon,
Love
Anne
Crumbs, it has been almost a year. And for some reason the e-mails are now coming in, virtually ordering me to update the blog. Who knew I had fans? But I guess I do.
So I'll start with an e-mail that arrived yesterday.
"WELL!
After 2 weeks of rowing with the [insert name of guilty party's team here], I decided sweep rowing was NOT for me (was it ever?). Boy did the coach make a mistake putting me in the double one day when the boat lineups were off - as soon as I sculled I knew it was over (I think it does something to your brain - it felt 100 times better with 2 oars). So I took a captain's test this morning and am transitioning over to sculling a single in the mornings and rowing recreationally with the team 3 days a week in the afternoon. I bought a bike with clipless pedals and traverse traffic to and from the boathouse. I now have absolutely no life, no life outside of rowing and can't stay up past 10pm on a Saturday night because I'm that wiped.
You would be proud.
I don't know why it turns into such an obsession so quickly, but I've never felt better - it's like an addiction and I don't understand why I haven't been rowing these past 3 years. I feel like my life was on hold or something and I finally got it back.
YAY!
Thanks for the info - had we not talked I don't think I would have ever got back into this.
YAAAAAAAAY!
THANK YOU! :-)
xox -Mike"
[Message edited to take out identifying information and location.]
Now, I love Mike like a big sister (which is a bit pointless, as he already has two fabulous big sisters provided biologically), and of course as my friend all I want for him is to be happy. But the line where he says "I have no life...you would be so proud" cracks me into hysterical laughter every time. I guess that's the coaching demeanour, and that is how Mike and I became friends. I was his coach, and I loved coaching him. Not just because he won every race he entered, although that was fun too. "Surrender Dorothy!" But I do know how he feels. After some rough times in the 8 this spring, and now three weeks off being ill, I've finally climbed back into the single since getting Weil's Disease last year. I suck. Suck, suck, suck. And I love it so much. Even the sucking. How did I live without doing this every day?
Well, I guess I lived with a few more inches on my hips from lack of exercise, but that's not really the point. I'm not addicted to alcohol, I've never smoked and I've never taken a drug I wasn't prescribed, but if they tried to treat the rowing addiction, they'd have a massive battle on their hands.
More soon,
Love
Anne
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
In Which Our Heroine Moves House
Ah, getting ready to move house again. I'm amazed it is all happening so quickly. Just amazed. Saw it last Thursday, moving in this Friday (well, picking up the keys. And then buggering off out of town to drive to Exeter and fetch my things so that I can bring them back. It shoudn't be too bad as these things go. I don't have much stuff, and it is already conveniently packed. It just needs to be moved out of Tom's spare room, which is frankly a straight shot out the front door, into the van and driven on up to Henley.
Yes, Henley. Rowing central, really. Seems like a very nice place, and I'm sure I'll have a whole bunch of new best friends when people start realizing they have a friend two minutes from the finish line.
Particularly when they realize they can get out of London for the weekend. I went out on Saturday night with Dan to SoHo. Everyone was there - Kats was at one party, Jim was in another bar. But this is just it - every tourist in the land and everyone in London was there. It was heaving, it was loud, and it was being seen for the sake of being seen, which takes a bit of fun out of the company you've gone out to spend time with. Then of course, I had to take the chucking out time Tube home. I don't care what city you're in. This is never a good time to be on public transport. I was shoehorned into a Victoria line carriage. There were a group of American tourists celebrating the 20th birthday of one of their group in the loudly drunk manner that announced to everyone that they thought it was cool they could legally drink (which they couldn't do at home). They did this by proceeding to act in the manner that other Americans begin to apologize on behalf of their nation to eveyone around them. It was bad. But of course I didn't need/bother to apologize, I was focussed very clearly on trying hard to make sure that the girl vomiting next to me didn't get sick on my shoes. This was pretty hard. There wasn't a lot of space to move my feet, and she seemed ready to renounce her amateur status and turn professional. Add into the mix an Elvis impersonator ready to sing for money (and getting stiffed by the American birthday tourists. Get the cash up front next time, King.) and a very obnoxious guy who got on, grabbed on to the rail, nearly elbowed some girl in the face and then got right in the face of someone who asked him to move and I was ready to leave London for ever. I do love London - the city, the culture, the museums in particular, the river and the history, but it is very crowded and that last tube is like Mr Toad's Wild Ride.
NOt that Henley is perfect. I don't know how rowdy it is or isn't at night as I've not spent the night there yet. But my MP is none other than Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, who is perpetually in the press for making a complete twit of himself, and a tale of whom was regaled to me by a co-worker.
"It takes a lot to get the NCT to boo you, particularly in Henley where they're a nice conservative polite lot. But they booed Boris quite heavily as he was drunk as a skunk, slurring his speech and awful to listen to." Well, there you go. It has been suggested I start looking for constituency problems just to be able to validly attend his surgery. Could be a laugh riot, I must say!
Packing packing packing.
Love
Anne
Ah, getting ready to move house again. I'm amazed it is all happening so quickly. Just amazed. Saw it last Thursday, moving in this Friday (well, picking up the keys. And then buggering off out of town to drive to Exeter and fetch my things so that I can bring them back. It shoudn't be too bad as these things go. I don't have much stuff, and it is already conveniently packed. It just needs to be moved out of Tom's spare room, which is frankly a straight shot out the front door, into the van and driven on up to Henley.
Yes, Henley. Rowing central, really. Seems like a very nice place, and I'm sure I'll have a whole bunch of new best friends when people start realizing they have a friend two minutes from the finish line.
Particularly when they realize they can get out of London for the weekend. I went out on Saturday night with Dan to SoHo. Everyone was there - Kats was at one party, Jim was in another bar. But this is just it - every tourist in the land and everyone in London was there. It was heaving, it was loud, and it was being seen for the sake of being seen, which takes a bit of fun out of the company you've gone out to spend time with. Then of course, I had to take the chucking out time Tube home. I don't care what city you're in. This is never a good time to be on public transport. I was shoehorned into a Victoria line carriage. There were a group of American tourists celebrating the 20th birthday of one of their group in the loudly drunk manner that announced to everyone that they thought it was cool they could legally drink (which they couldn't do at home). They did this by proceeding to act in the manner that other Americans begin to apologize on behalf of their nation to eveyone around them. It was bad. But of course I didn't need/bother to apologize, I was focussed very clearly on trying hard to make sure that the girl vomiting next to me didn't get sick on my shoes. This was pretty hard. There wasn't a lot of space to move my feet, and she seemed ready to renounce her amateur status and turn professional. Add into the mix an Elvis impersonator ready to sing for money (and getting stiffed by the American birthday tourists. Get the cash up front next time, King.) and a very obnoxious guy who got on, grabbed on to the rail, nearly elbowed some girl in the face and then got right in the face of someone who asked him to move and I was ready to leave London for ever. I do love London - the city, the culture, the museums in particular, the river and the history, but it is very crowded and that last tube is like Mr Toad's Wild Ride.
NOt that Henley is perfect. I don't know how rowdy it is or isn't at night as I've not spent the night there yet. But my MP is none other than Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, who is perpetually in the press for making a complete twit of himself, and a tale of whom was regaled to me by a co-worker.
"It takes a lot to get the NCT to boo you, particularly in Henley where they're a nice conservative polite lot. But they booed Boris quite heavily as he was drunk as a skunk, slurring his speech and awful to listen to." Well, there you go. It has been suggested I start looking for constituency problems just to be able to validly attend his surgery. Could be a laugh riot, I must say!
Packing packing packing.
Love
Anne
Monday, April 02, 2007
In Which Our Heroine Plays to Her Strengths
If there is one thing I love to do, it is the old Quiz. And one of my favorite quizzes (unless you count sitting in on a Monday night competing against Pete in back to back University Challenge and Mastermind...and losing. Pete is VERY good.) is the monthly quiz down at the RAC in Pall Mall. Good company, good quiz, excellent booze and atmosphere, and 90% of the time we manage to win a squeaker.
There's a picture round. There's always a picture round. Last Friday, the picture round was mine, all mine.
Identify the companies associated with the following trademarks........
I'm sorry, did you just ask an intellectual property lawyer to identify trademarks? Can we turn it into a speed round? Please? I was 10/10. In about 30 seconds flat.
It didn't save us though. There was a seriously good team that although they didn't get 10 on the picture round, seemed to get 10 for every other round, so we got squished. But never mind, I proved those years of training good!
love
Anne
Thursday, March 15, 2007
In Which Our Heroine Goes Back to the House with the Clock In Its Walls
When I was about 8 or 9, I read a book called "The House With the Clock In Its Walls." I remember it as being fairly long, and I also remember it as being absolutely terrifying. It was my first encounter with a scary book, and given that I lived in an old house with a coal bin (which featured heavily in the story) I spent far too much time sneaking round the house at night if I had to get up for something with my ear pinned to the wall, desperately listening for sounds of Doomsday. Took me ages to get over it.
Then, a few years back, my friend Michaela came round and was doing a PhD in children's literature focusing on the classic gothic style horror novel. But she hadn't heard of this book, so I bought her a copy as I popped her on the plane back to Britain.
I mentioned this to her when I stayed with her last week. "It is in the room you're staying in!" she commented. I didn't think I could read it again. I mean, I know I'm 36 now, and that it was a children's book, but sometimes the memories are just too strong.
But it was night, and I was in bed, and I caved. It didn't take long to read the book, but it didn't matter. The text itself was no where near as scary as I remembered, although it was very well written, but that was mostly because I knew what was going to happen, so the air of suspense was a bit lost.
It didn't matter, though. I woke up in the middle of the night because I heard something, and immediately was ready to sneak around with my ear to the wall and listen. And I knew for a fact that these people do not have a coal bin in their house. Or even a cellar.
This sense of apprehension wasn't helped by our trip out the next day. Where did we go? I'll tell you. But first, a word of warning: do not hang out with people who study gothic literature. It will only give you many sleepless nights. For example, it is now four days later and I'm still up at three in the morning. So brace yourself. Where did we go?
Whitby.
What is Whitby famous for? Two things.
1) Fish and chips (and they are good); and
2) Dracula. Now I've never read the book myself, but it seems that now I have to in order to fully appreciate this little trip. Apparently Whitby is where Dracula makes landfall in Britain, before going to London and wreaking havoc. You can picture it. Get a good fog in that town, sweeping through the ruined Abbey on a cliff top, tranquil fishing boats in the harbour, surrounded by incredibly lonesome moors. Criminy. All very beautiful until you mention the Dracula factor.
I think I'm going to have to stick to much happier books for a while. Something like Frog and Toad Are Friends, or Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.
Right after I read Dracula.
Love
Anne
Monday, February 19, 2007
Life's been a major pain of the last couple of months. Moving house, living out of a pack for a bit, the general stresses and tribulations of existence, being told I was being offered a job and then being told that while that might still be happening, there was a yet undetermined delay.
All that was washed away by those five magical little words, uttered by my doubles partner Liz, who I swear knows me better than anyone.
"Its Girl Scout cookie time."
We love Liz.
All that was washed away by those five magical little words, uttered by my doubles partner Liz, who I swear knows me better than anyone.
"Its Girl Scout cookie time."
We love Liz.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
In Which Our Heroine Is a Little Unsure About Her New Digs
The local free paper came through the letter box today. Front page, very large point text.
The local free paper came through the letter box today. Front page, very large point text.
"100th Crack Den Is Shut Down"
(Latest closures seal borough's 'remarkable' record)
(Latest closures seal borough's 'remarkable' record)
Um, I'm sure that's a good thing. Or at least a better thing than having 100 crack dens lying around where people can trip over them.
Help me! Help me!
Love
Anne
Help me! Help me!
Love
Anne
Saturday, February 10, 2007
In Which Our Heroine Moves To London
Here I am, all tucked up in North London. It is like having flashbacks to 15 years ago, when I lived in Muswell Hill. That was next to Alexandra Palace, coming up on it from the back or the left hand side depending on which road you took. Here in Crouch End, I walk out the door, turn right and there it is - the best view of Alexandra Palace I've ever encountered. It is a slightly strange neighbourhood. The road we're on is miles long and just lined with identical houses as far as the eye can see. It seems the epitome of nameless suburbia, and gives a feel that there is nothing to recommend this area at all. But if you turn left down the first road, which is only meters away, there's wonderful little cul de sacs and within five minutes you're in Crouch End Broadway which is wonderful. Wonderful! There is no Cafe Nero, which often tends to be my immediate benchmark as to whether I can cope. There are, however, a couple nice little independent coffee shops and those will outdo Nero almost every time. There's also a Starbucks, but that's always a negative. But there's wonderful little shops, and bookstores, and a massive park, and everything you could want.
I've also acheived a new level of housewifery. This actually started before I left Exeter, when Sara texted me to beg me to make a quiche before I left. Jim then wanted to know if I could do the dishes when I arrived. But that's nothing. I have acheived a new pinnacle of success. As far as I can tell or anyone can remember I am the first straight woman ever commissioned to design, pick out and shop for a gay man's kitchen. And bathroom! Mostly Jim doens't have the time, and he's still in a panic about whether he did the right thing buying this flat. The story of how it got decorated so far is hysterical. His friend Paul took him shopping, as he was sick of hearing him kvetch. They got to the store, and Paul insisted "Just pick an accent colour. Just one colour. Do it!" Jim moped, and refused.
That's the point where Paul said "Right. The colour is red, because you're pissing me off."
The accent pieces are fabulous. I love Paul. Everyone does. Paul is now desperate for me to come shopping with him ever since we talked about my running interference for James on those Oliver Sweeny shoes in Selfridges in the New Year's Sale at Selfridges.
I've been re-organizing shelves and things all weekend. Turns out I also iron and do laundry!
Love
Anne
Here I am, all tucked up in North London. It is like having flashbacks to 15 years ago, when I lived in Muswell Hill. That was next to Alexandra Palace, coming up on it from the back or the left hand side depending on which road you took. Here in Crouch End, I walk out the door, turn right and there it is - the best view of Alexandra Palace I've ever encountered. It is a slightly strange neighbourhood. The road we're on is miles long and just lined with identical houses as far as the eye can see. It seems the epitome of nameless suburbia, and gives a feel that there is nothing to recommend this area at all. But if you turn left down the first road, which is only meters away, there's wonderful little cul de sacs and within five minutes you're in Crouch End Broadway which is wonderful. Wonderful! There is no Cafe Nero, which often tends to be my immediate benchmark as to whether I can cope. There are, however, a couple nice little independent coffee shops and those will outdo Nero almost every time. There's also a Starbucks, but that's always a negative. But there's wonderful little shops, and bookstores, and a massive park, and everything you could want.
I've also acheived a new level of housewifery. This actually started before I left Exeter, when Sara texted me to beg me to make a quiche before I left. Jim then wanted to know if I could do the dishes when I arrived. But that's nothing. I have acheived a new pinnacle of success. As far as I can tell or anyone can remember I am the first straight woman ever commissioned to design, pick out and shop for a gay man's kitchen. And bathroom! Mostly Jim doens't have the time, and he's still in a panic about whether he did the right thing buying this flat. The story of how it got decorated so far is hysterical. His friend Paul took him shopping, as he was sick of hearing him kvetch. They got to the store, and Paul insisted "Just pick an accent colour. Just one colour. Do it!" Jim moped, and refused.
That's the point where Paul said "Right. The colour is red, because you're pissing me off."
The accent pieces are fabulous. I love Paul. Everyone does. Paul is now desperate for me to come shopping with him ever since we talked about my running interference for James on those Oliver Sweeny shoes in Selfridges in the New Year's Sale at Selfridges.
I've been re-organizing shelves and things all weekend. Turns out I also iron and do laundry!
Love
Anne
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
In Which Our Heroine Makes Her Resolutions for 2007
I always make New Year's Resolutions (by always, I mean about the last dozen years) and for the most part I take them pretty seriously. I tend to carry a list of them around and seriously check in on them round about my birthday, which is conveniently almost exactly half way through the entire year. But this year, I'm putting them here, mostly because it was a heck of a New Year's Eve (um, weekend?) and I may in fact be too hungover to operate a pen in such a way that will be readable later in the year.
There are rules to New Year's Resolutions, but they're pretty general. First, there should be a mix of those that are easy, hard and middling to keep. A bit like the three bears. Secondly, if it worked last year and still seems like a good idea, keep at it. Plus, if possible/appropriate you should up it a notch. You know, increase your discipline a bit. Thirdly, everything should be within your control. The classic example is: I'm going to date so and so. Totally out of your control - So and So may in fact loathe your very existence and refuse point blank to date you. You just don't know it yet. But a resolution to ask So and So on a date, that's within your control absolutely. So go for it. Resolutions should also be acheivable. Don't just give up something you currently do 93 times a week. Restrict yourself to a smaller amount, (74 or so?) and then keep tapering it off if you can (revising to taper it off fully next year if you can.) Unofficially, there should also be a rule that your resolutions should be useful to yourself, but that tends to be axiomatic.
And so....the list.
First, the traditional resolution list starter.
1. I will not date anyone from Bromborough, Wirral. Two was enough. For a lifetime. And then some. Particularly that last one dated. Like shingles after chickenpox, he came back and worse than ever. It should be noted that I have not had even a slight problem keeping this since the list began, but it may arguably be harder now that I live in the UK where people from or in Bromborough are statistically more common than back home. Still, I vow to remain strong.
2. I will obtain a better job. Odds are looking good on this, but hey, you never know. Gotta keep going on this one.
3. I will not torment Charles more than twice about the sports celebrities I met at the SPARKS ball. After all, I merely encountered these people for all of five minutes. I may never meet them again or they might become my bestest friends ever (though lets face it, odds are strongly against that) but either way it does not make me a superior human being. Even if Charles thinks makes me better than him..............
4. I will try to make coffee approaching something suitable for consumption by humans at least twice a month. No more moaning about how rubbish my coffee is without still trying to make it better.
5. I will knit (and complete) a jumper for myself. Finally. At last. I have the pattern all picked out, so I just need to buy the yarn and get going. I guess in doing that I need to pick a colour, but I think I already have it sorted. I say I have picked a pattern. More accurate is I saw a lovely £750 Pringle jumper and have adapted it slightly. The nice thing is even if I use pure cashmere (which I'm quite tempted to do - after all, for all the work that it takes to do this sort of thing, I've never skimped on yarn quality. Why spend 80 hours making a beautiful scarf that itches, pills and no one wants to wear?) it won't cost that, and what's more it will fit me, which it wouldn't do if I bought it from Pringle. You know, what with my arms being longer than everyone elses. (If you e-mail me, I'll send you a picture of the original.)
6. I will not eat fast food more than once a month. It doesn't have to be from a chain - I just need to continue to eat better and this is an easy way to make sure things start to stay in check. If there is one month I do not eat any fast food at all, that doesn't mean that I can eat it twice next month. Calendar months set the rules.
7. Less shutters down. That one is kind of personal. But I know what it means, and so does the other person it applies to, so we'll work on it.
8. I will finish my second hat.
9. I will make enough jam and jelly this year to sustain my own needs and give it away to those who have asked. I had enough requests at Christmas that I felt badly for not being able to hand away whatever I should!
10. I will get at least £1000 into an ISA by the end of the calendar year. Ideally, I'll have more, but that's the bare minimum. That's not even £100 a month overall. That's doable once number one is acheived!
11. I will not drink Diet Coke more than twice a week. I never used to think this was a big deal. Then I moved to England, where everyone seemed to flip that I drank it every day. So, now it is a minorly big deal. Cutting back is a good financial and health move, and I'll save the money to do something special with it. Heck, it might help with number 10!
Any further ideas?
Love,
Anne
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Starts Reading Her Christmas Mail.......
Oh my. It is that time of year. The Christmas circulars and cards start arriving. This year really took the cake. (Speaking of which, I think i should go grab some Christmas cake for while I type this. ) There was the circular that hit death by sentence three and from there went on to illness, rheumatoid arthritis, pulmonary embolism and all else, with no let up from the misery and clinical terms until the last paragraph which exhorted everyone to have a very happy Christmas in full caps. It is crying out for a competition for me to enter it into just to bring some joy into its miserable little life. The next contender arrived in my e-mail in-box a few days later. This one was at least positive, but contained the awe inspiring statement "I truly regret that incident at the border." Now, I've since found out about the actual incident, and frankly it is tragic and not to be teased about, but that line is pure literary genius. I just wish people would stop saying "sounds like something you'd say!"
Even the regular Christmas cards are hysterical. I've actually received one this year which includes the word "fucking" in it. Granted, it says "Bush is still fucking president and we still hate him", a sentiment I fully agree with, but it still cracks me up to read it in a Christmas card.
Apart from the joy of those, life's been good. Christmas was quiet, with more church than even my devout Catholic order friends deemed necessary but apart from that it was long walks with the faithful hound, and good food and good friends. Had a lovely Christmas Eve dinner with Mike, and tea on Boxing Day with Pete, Alice and the children. And the interim was spent nice, quiet and not having to deal with everyone bickering. Ah, now that is Christmas my friends!
Hope everyone else's was as nice.
Love
Anne
Oh my. It is that time of year. The Christmas circulars and cards start arriving. This year really took the cake. (Speaking of which, I think i should go grab some Christmas cake for while I type this. ) There was the circular that hit death by sentence three and from there went on to illness, rheumatoid arthritis, pulmonary embolism and all else, with no let up from the misery and clinical terms until the last paragraph which exhorted everyone to have a very happy Christmas in full caps. It is crying out for a competition for me to enter it into just to bring some joy into its miserable little life. The next contender arrived in my e-mail in-box a few days later. This one was at least positive, but contained the awe inspiring statement "I truly regret that incident at the border." Now, I've since found out about the actual incident, and frankly it is tragic and not to be teased about, but that line is pure literary genius. I just wish people would stop saying "sounds like something you'd say!"
Even the regular Christmas cards are hysterical. I've actually received one this year which includes the word "fucking" in it. Granted, it says "Bush is still fucking president and we still hate him", a sentiment I fully agree with, but it still cracks me up to read it in a Christmas card.
Apart from the joy of those, life's been good. Christmas was quiet, with more church than even my devout Catholic order friends deemed necessary but apart from that it was long walks with the faithful hound, and good food and good friends. Had a lovely Christmas Eve dinner with Mike, and tea on Boxing Day with Pete, Alice and the children. And the interim was spent nice, quiet and not having to deal with everyone bickering. Ah, now that is Christmas my friends!
Hope everyone else's was as nice.
Love
Anne
Thursday, December 07, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Saves Sinterklaas!
Oh the things that wind up happening when we try to be nice. Oh dearie, dearie, dearie.
The other night, we were all getting together for a Group X meeting on the topic of "Science and Religion." The discussion was going to be led by my friend Jeff, an Episcopal priest and medical doctor, and professor of medical ethics at the local Medical School. But with everyone gathered together in the lounge at Pete and Alice's I arrived home to discover that Jeff couldn't come. His eldest daughter, aged nine, had fallen and gashed her head, and suturing was going to occur. Mom and Dad were in the ER with the two younger kids in tow. Since I didn't have to be up at any certain hour the next morning, I volunteered to fetch the two nippers from the hospital, and take them home and put them to bed.
I had a few reservations about this as the youngest (aged 3) is exceptionally shy and while saying to her Mom and Dad that she loved me and liked it when I came round, she'd never actually spoken a word to me. This struck me as not the best time to have to force that point, but it turned out to be ok. Once inside the house, she was a regular chatterbox, and happy as a clam. All good. Into jammies, up to bed, teeth cleaned, stories read, prayers said, and lights out. Ruthlessly efficient, but all very friendly. I was downstairs in the kitchen when the crisis started.
The kids had climbed out of bed, come downstairs with shoes in their hands, and "reminded" me that it was St. Nicholas day tomorrow so they had to put their shoes by the fireplace. This accomplished, they very happily went back to bed. They were fine.
I, on the other hand, was a wreck. I know what St. Nicholas day is about (or Sinterklaas, as the Dutch call it) from my Dutch and German friends. But I had no idea what went into the shoes, or for that matter where to find it! I called Jeff. Voice mail - no cell phones in most parts of the ER. So I called back to the group for help. General consensus was candy and an orange. I could find oranges, but not candy. I also didn't know how much candy. Text messages were sent to anyone religious I knew, and also to the Netherlands. It was pointed out to me that whatever I did, not to do it before midnight as if they did come home with the eldest daughter, she shouldn't see it before midnight or it would give the game away to her. The panic, the dread, the complications of overwhelming guilt at the thought of being responsible for a small child losing faith in St Nicholas. That's right. As much as I wanted the kids to be happy, I couldn't bear the weight of the guilt of being the one to shatter the illusion.
In a pinch, the group was prepared to send sweets home with someone heading home from the meeting and I could put those in the shoes. Contingency plans abounded. Thankfully, as things hit a crisis point approaching 11, home arrived Jeff, Mummy and the eldest (sporting five stitches in her head, and an exceptionally dazed expression, poor wee thing). The presents were revealed to be hidden in a particular drawer (and it turns out that sweeties in this instance weren't the way to go, since they use it to prepare the kids for Christmas, so they get things like books of Christmas stories and CDs of Christmas carols.
I'm just glad it is over. I can start to calm down now. Whew! Pressure's off.
Gelukkig Siinterklaas!
Love
Anne
Oh the things that wind up happening when we try to be nice. Oh dearie, dearie, dearie.
The other night, we were all getting together for a Group X meeting on the topic of "Science and Religion." The discussion was going to be led by my friend Jeff, an Episcopal priest and medical doctor, and professor of medical ethics at the local Medical School. But with everyone gathered together in the lounge at Pete and Alice's I arrived home to discover that Jeff couldn't come. His eldest daughter, aged nine, had fallen and gashed her head, and suturing was going to occur. Mom and Dad were in the ER with the two younger kids in tow. Since I didn't have to be up at any certain hour the next morning, I volunteered to fetch the two nippers from the hospital, and take them home and put them to bed.
I had a few reservations about this as the youngest (aged 3) is exceptionally shy and while saying to her Mom and Dad that she loved me and liked it when I came round, she'd never actually spoken a word to me. This struck me as not the best time to have to force that point, but it turned out to be ok. Once inside the house, she was a regular chatterbox, and happy as a clam. All good. Into jammies, up to bed, teeth cleaned, stories read, prayers said, and lights out. Ruthlessly efficient, but all very friendly. I was downstairs in the kitchen when the crisis started.
The kids had climbed out of bed, come downstairs with shoes in their hands, and "reminded" me that it was St. Nicholas day tomorrow so they had to put their shoes by the fireplace. This accomplished, they very happily went back to bed. They were fine.
I, on the other hand, was a wreck. I know what St. Nicholas day is about (or Sinterklaas, as the Dutch call it) from my Dutch and German friends. But I had no idea what went into the shoes, or for that matter where to find it! I called Jeff. Voice mail - no cell phones in most parts of the ER. So I called back to the group for help. General consensus was candy and an orange. I could find oranges, but not candy. I also didn't know how much candy. Text messages were sent to anyone religious I knew, and also to the Netherlands. It was pointed out to me that whatever I did, not to do it before midnight as if they did come home with the eldest daughter, she shouldn't see it before midnight or it would give the game away to her. The panic, the dread, the complications of overwhelming guilt at the thought of being responsible for a small child losing faith in St Nicholas. That's right. As much as I wanted the kids to be happy, I couldn't bear the weight of the guilt of being the one to shatter the illusion.
In a pinch, the group was prepared to send sweets home with someone heading home from the meeting and I could put those in the shoes. Contingency plans abounded. Thankfully, as things hit a crisis point approaching 11, home arrived Jeff, Mummy and the eldest (sporting five stitches in her head, and an exceptionally dazed expression, poor wee thing). The presents were revealed to be hidden in a particular drawer (and it turns out that sweeties in this instance weren't the way to go, since they use it to prepare the kids for Christmas, so they get things like books of Christmas stories and CDs of Christmas carols.
I'm just glad it is over. I can start to calm down now. Whew! Pressure's off.
Gelukkig Siinterklaas!
Love
Anne
Monday, November 20, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Starts Thinking About Christmas
Thanksgiving is this week, so it is time to start thinking about the shopping, the shipping, the making, and the whole deal. I've already completed one or two Christmas gifts (you knit, you start early), and I have some good ideas what to get most people. Assuming I have disposable income, which at this point is looking dicey, but hey, here's hoping!
And of course, people keep asking what to get me. I have two options for you. Amazon.co.uk gift list as ever, or I just found this: http://www.markhelprin.com/index.cfm?page=store. Ooooo, it made me shiver with tingles of goodness.
But first, Thanksgiving. I have to figure out how to enrobe the chocolates.
Love,
Anne
Thanksgiving is this week, so it is time to start thinking about the shopping, the shipping, the making, and the whole deal. I've already completed one or two Christmas gifts (you knit, you start early), and I have some good ideas what to get most people. Assuming I have disposable income, which at this point is looking dicey, but hey, here's hoping!
And of course, people keep asking what to get me. I have two options for you. Amazon.co.uk gift list as ever, or I just found this: http://www.markhelprin.com/index.cfm?page=store. Ooooo, it made me shiver with tingles of goodness.
But first, Thanksgiving. I have to figure out how to enrobe the chocolates.
Love,
Anne
Sunday, November 19, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Joins the Fray
Right, people. Tom Cruise. More specifically, Tom Cruise's wedding. For fifty points and a chance to win the boat, please discuss the following:
Why. Do. We. Care?????????????
I am, or was, as much of a Tom fan as anyone should be. I mean, he was cute, in a short guy all -American way. The movies weren't too bad on the whole. Some of them were really good. (Born on the Fourth of July, Magnolia, etc). But not being on the obsessive side, I saw them because I wanted to see the movies, not because Tom Cruise was in them. Most people I know feel the same. And now..... well, we all thought this last year was a bit out there for Tom and his publicist should rein him the hell in. Not because we actually cared about what he did or didn't do, until it became an annoyance in our lives. And he should not become an annoyance, as I/we/you haven't met the guy. And 99.9% of the world is not affected directly or indirectly by his actions. So what on earth is all this durm and strang about his wedding? It isn't even his first one. The guy's on his third, and the speculation is that it isn't going to last anyway. (I won't go into the reasons here.) There should have been a total of three news lines about this:
1) Tom Cruise is going to get married.
2) Tom Cruise is now married.
3) (If necessary:) Tom Cruise is no longer married.
So why is there all this kerfuffle? I just don't understand, and what's more, I'm totally sick of it. It isn't like they want me to send a present. Because if they do, they'll be sorely disappointed.
I'm not usually so bitter, and almost never so about weddings. But this celebrity culture thing is just insane.
Love,
Anne
Right, people. Tom Cruise. More specifically, Tom Cruise's wedding. For fifty points and a chance to win the boat, please discuss the following:
Why. Do. We. Care?????????????
I am, or was, as much of a Tom fan as anyone should be. I mean, he was cute, in a short guy all -American way. The movies weren't too bad on the whole. Some of them were really good. (Born on the Fourth of July, Magnolia, etc). But not being on the obsessive side, I saw them because I wanted to see the movies, not because Tom Cruise was in them. Most people I know feel the same. And now..... well, we all thought this last year was a bit out there for Tom and his publicist should rein him the hell in. Not because we actually cared about what he did or didn't do, until it became an annoyance in our lives. And he should not become an annoyance, as I/we/you haven't met the guy. And 99.9% of the world is not affected directly or indirectly by his actions. So what on earth is all this durm and strang about his wedding? It isn't even his first one. The guy's on his third, and the speculation is that it isn't going to last anyway. (I won't go into the reasons here.) There should have been a total of three news lines about this:
1) Tom Cruise is going to get married.
2) Tom Cruise is now married.
3) (If necessary:) Tom Cruise is no longer married.
So why is there all this kerfuffle? I just don't understand, and what's more, I'm totally sick of it. It isn't like they want me to send a present. Because if they do, they'll be sorely disappointed.
I'm not usually so bitter, and almost never so about weddings. But this celebrity culture thing is just insane.
Love,
Anne
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Keeps in the Poetry Vibe
By sheer coincidence, my friend Liz (the other half of Team Milhouse) sent me this poem today to give me a chuckle:
Short Love Poem
Judith Viorst
It's hard to love
The tallest girl
When you're the shortest guy,
For every time
You try to look
Your true love in the eye
You see
Her bellybutton.
I don't know Judith Viorst, but I'm suddenly a big fan.
Love
Anne
By sheer coincidence, my friend Liz (the other half of Team Milhouse) sent me this poem today to give me a chuckle:
Short Love Poem
Judith Viorst
It's hard to love
The tallest girl
When you're the shortest guy,
For every time
You try to look
Your true love in the eye
You see
Her bellybutton.
I don't know Judith Viorst, but I'm suddenly a big fan.
Love
Anne
Friday, November 10, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Gets Various Feedback
That post on business-speak resonated with people, I'm glad to say. I can't take credit for prompting this story in the BBC
but that shows how much this is becoming an issue. In addition, I was sent to the lovely site for the humorous antidote to all this garbage: Despair.com. Keeps me going, knowing that there is still sanity in the world. Particularly as I am interviewing for jobs at the moment, and having to keep discussing my "core competencies." These seem for the most part to be basic lawyering skills such as drafting, negotiating, and the like, but have been taken over by business speak. I'm hoping that the Campaign for Plain English becomes involved at some point.
Thankfully, where business speak leaves off arts comes into its own. Specifically in this case, poetry. Now, I've read a bunch of poetry and in fact I quite like it. I owe a lot of my later understanding of the genre to my friend John Hildebidle, literature professor at MIT, poet and someone always eager to share his enthusiasm for this chosen topic. As much as I was (and continue to be) willing to learn, he is always willing to share, and is the embodiment of the philosophy that there is no such thing as a stupid question. Believe me, I have tested this philosophy to the limit with him.
But he's also a deeply funny guy that you can joke with very openly, and laugh very hard in his company. I have been winding him up of late with my statement and conviction that whatever poem he sent me that week was pretty good, but that all truly great poetry required cows. Needless to say, I chose cows as to the best of my knowledge, they only rarely turn up in poetry. This has been an on-going joke for a while, and now in my in-box there suddenly appears the following:
A friend (to meet her, you'd take her for genteel)
seems devout in her attachment
to beasts of bovine persuasions.
I'd thought the custom was to link
girls and women with horses (just as
men lean toward fast cars and Harleys).
But cows? I suppose, the kindest view
is to take her as unique, not generic.
made to order
He has also hastened to point out that "the greatest of cow verses (outdoing even the Irish proto-epic, "The Cattle Raid of Cooley") is Ogden Nash:
Cows are of the bovine ilk.
One end gives moo, the other milk."
I have had other poems written for me in my day. Most of them were, quite frankly, atrocious. One of them (the one before this) was very very good. But it just didn't have the cow factor. And as previously stated, the cow factor is what makes it all truly great.
Love,
Anne
That post on business-speak resonated with people, I'm glad to say. I can't take credit for prompting this story in the BBC
but that shows how much this is becoming an issue. In addition, I was sent to the lovely site for the humorous antidote to all this garbage: Despair.com. Keeps me going, knowing that there is still sanity in the world. Particularly as I am interviewing for jobs at the moment, and having to keep discussing my "core competencies." These seem for the most part to be basic lawyering skills such as drafting, negotiating, and the like, but have been taken over by business speak. I'm hoping that the Campaign for Plain English becomes involved at some point.
Thankfully, where business speak leaves off arts comes into its own. Specifically in this case, poetry. Now, I've read a bunch of poetry and in fact I quite like it. I owe a lot of my later understanding of the genre to my friend John Hildebidle, literature professor at MIT, poet and someone always eager to share his enthusiasm for this chosen topic. As much as I was (and continue to be) willing to learn, he is always willing to share, and is the embodiment of the philosophy that there is no such thing as a stupid question. Believe me, I have tested this philosophy to the limit with him.
But he's also a deeply funny guy that you can joke with very openly, and laugh very hard in his company. I have been winding him up of late with my statement and conviction that whatever poem he sent me that week was pretty good, but that all truly great poetry required cows. Needless to say, I chose cows as to the best of my knowledge, they only rarely turn up in poetry. This has been an on-going joke for a while, and now in my in-box there suddenly appears the following:
A friend (to meet her, you'd take her for genteel)
seems devout in her attachment
to beasts of bovine persuasions.
I'd thought the custom was to link
girls and women with horses (just as
men lean toward fast cars and Harleys).
But cows? I suppose, the kindest view
is to take her as unique, not generic.
made to order
He has also hastened to point out that "the greatest of cow verses (outdoing even the Irish proto-epic, "The Cattle Raid of Cooley") is Ogden Nash:
Cows are of the bovine ilk.
One end gives moo, the other milk."
I have had other poems written for me in my day. Most of them were, quite frankly, atrocious. One of them (the one before this) was very very good. But it just didn't have the cow factor. And as previously stated, the cow factor is what makes it all truly great.
Love,
Anne
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Has a Little Rant
Like most other people in the world (for example, my mate Gareth)
certain things in life really get so far up my nose, I can feel their boots on my chin. And for the longest time, one of those things has been empty minded business speak. You know the stuff I'm talking about. It is supposed to motivate you, but really it just illustrates how someone else just doesn't understand the problem. And usually, they don't understand the problem they're actually facing.
For example, here. All this stuff about "Wow, isn't this guy great, look at him practice, look at him go!" (for those of you who can't see or access the link, it is pit crew for NASCAR practicing putting on wheel nuts. Or maybe taking them off.) First off, this is actually pretty demeaning to the chap in the photo. Think about it. This photo was pretty much chosen because whoever decided to circulate it around as a "get with the plan" motivational thing thinks that wheel nuts are basically so simple that a trained monkey could do it, and they would never think of practicing it.
To which my response is "Honey, that's why you ain't in the NASCAR pit crew." The point is, that's the guy's job. I'm willing to be that some days he loves it, some days he hates it, and some days are in between. Which makes him like any other guy or gal on the job. But because it is his job, he better know what he's doing or he isn't going to be keeping his job. The initial commentary (from a newsletter called Just Sell, so you know the kind of people they're marketing to here) is that "By practicing, I'm sure he tends to perform better."
No kidding. Just as I get better writing skills the more I practice, or learn to speak languages, row better, play better squash, or do any other job, task, memorization, activity or what have you, the more anyone will get better by practicing whatever it is they do. I remember discussing this with one of my rowers that by doing all our practices, that's how they improved, and that applied to anything, even tests. This particular girl tended to panic under exam stress, and said that she didn't think it would help her, so we practiced stuff for her history test (I think it is actually called studying, but don't tell her that!) and lo and behold, she did much better. That's why the slogan is "practice makes perfect".
But no, then it has to go on. Because you never can have enough business double speak.
Like most other people in the world (for example, my mate Gareth)
certain things in life really get so far up my nose, I can feel their boots on my chin. And for the longest time, one of those things has been empty minded business speak. You know the stuff I'm talking about. It is supposed to motivate you, but really it just illustrates how someone else just doesn't understand the problem. And usually, they don't understand the problem they're actually facing.
For example, here. All this stuff about "Wow, isn't this guy great, look at him practice, look at him go!" (for those of you who can't see or access the link, it is pit crew for NASCAR practicing putting on wheel nuts. Or maybe taking them off.) First off, this is actually pretty demeaning to the chap in the photo. Think about it. This photo was pretty much chosen because whoever decided to circulate it around as a "get with the plan" motivational thing thinks that wheel nuts are basically so simple that a trained monkey could do it, and they would never think of practicing it.
To which my response is "Honey, that's why you ain't in the NASCAR pit crew." The point is, that's the guy's job. I'm willing to be that some days he loves it, some days he hates it, and some days are in between. Which makes him like any other guy or gal on the job. But because it is his job, he better know what he's doing or he isn't going to be keeping his job. The initial commentary (from a newsletter called Just Sell, so you know the kind of people they're marketing to here) is that "By practicing, I'm sure he tends to perform better."
No kidding. Just as I get better writing skills the more I practice, or learn to speak languages, row better, play better squash, or do any other job, task, memorization, activity or what have you, the more anyone will get better by practicing whatever it is they do. I remember discussing this with one of my rowers that by doing all our practices, that's how they improved, and that applied to anything, even tests. This particular girl tended to panic under exam stress, and said that she didn't think it would help her, so we practiced stuff for her history test (I think it is actually called studying, but don't tell her that!) and lo and behold, she did much better. That's why the slogan is "practice makes perfect".
But no, then it has to go on. Because you never can have enough business double speak.
"What I find really interesting is not the practising in itself, but the sophistication of the rig the mechanic is working on, and the presence of a dedicated observer by his side. Clearly, he and his team are serious about performance improvement.
This picture really speaks to me in my periodic role as a trainer. Challenging exercises and accurate feedback are the keys to performance improvement."
Ahem. Again, patronising. Seriously patronising. Not to mention, how on earth do you know that it is a dedicated observer next to them? Looks to me like some guy who happens to be looking in that direction and is in the camera lens. As for the sophistication of the rig, when you think how much money is in NASCAR, you think these people are going to cut back on this aspect? No.
And again, "challenging exercises?" The man is doing his job, and being ready. This is not necessarily a challenging exercise. This is the practice. The NASCAR equivalent of shooting free throw after free throw after free throw so that your game percentage is solid. This is not a challenging exercise. And as for the accurate feedback, it doesn't seem to me that you're even assessing the picture correctly so I hope to high heaven you're not giving me feedback, as accurate may not seem to apply. All in all, this is the kind of thing that Dilbert makes fun of, so I won't have to go too far forward.
But it just goes on and on and on. Take a look at this one: Authentic Facilitation. What the heck is that? Why is it that if you call it Authentic, it seems pretty fake? Here's another classic example from that website, starting off with "putting humanity into branding":
"Most efforts at increasing engagement fail because they repeat the classic marketing error: repeating a one-way conversation. Branding spin erodes trust, disillusions people and leads to apathy."
If all else fails, obfuscate, obfuscate, obfuscate. Although I do have to say, this guy does seem to know how to conduct the one way conversation. If marketing is done well, it is a great thing, But there's so much of it that is just rubbish. People spend money for the services of the above two guys, but I'm glad I'm not.
But my absolute favorite comes here, and is filled with all kinds of little gems like this:
"There are twice as many lawyers as a ratio of non-lawyers today as there were in the 1970's. We are competing for half of the business."
Now, this ain't necessarily so. It is only so if there is the same amount of legal work that there was in the 1970s. Is there? I don't think so. The internet, for example, has created volumes of new legal work that wasn't there in the 1970s. It also makes the assumption that all lawyers are working as lawyers. And any lawyer will also tell you that is false. They may maintain their bar membership, but they work in other industry, write books, or frankly just can't get a job. And of those who are working as lawyers, any number of them aren't competing for your work. For example, I don't compete for conveyancing work as I don't do conveyancing. Criminal lawyers don't compete with me as I don't do criminal work. So this whole assertion only works if there's the same amount of legal work in my particular field of competition and twice as many lawyers in that field as there were in the 1970s. That's an awful lot of qualifiation, isn't it?
But the logic sounds nice, doesn't it? Of course it does. And hey, a stopped clock still tells the right time twice a day. But the rest of the time? Not so much.
Stop the insanity folks. Just go do your jobs, do them well, and get on with it.
Love,
Anne
And again, "challenging exercises?" The man is doing his job, and being ready. This is not necessarily a challenging exercise. This is the practice. The NASCAR equivalent of shooting free throw after free throw after free throw so that your game percentage is solid. This is not a challenging exercise. And as for the accurate feedback, it doesn't seem to me that you're even assessing the picture correctly so I hope to high heaven you're not giving me feedback, as accurate may not seem to apply. All in all, this is the kind of thing that Dilbert makes fun of, so I won't have to go too far forward.
But it just goes on and on and on. Take a look at this one: Authentic Facilitation. What the heck is that? Why is it that if you call it Authentic, it seems pretty fake? Here's another classic example from that website, starting off with "putting humanity into branding":
"Most efforts at increasing engagement fail because they repeat the classic marketing error: repeating a one-way conversation. Branding spin erodes trust, disillusions people and leads to apathy."
If all else fails, obfuscate, obfuscate, obfuscate. Although I do have to say, this guy does seem to know how to conduct the one way conversation. If marketing is done well, it is a great thing, But there's so much of it that is just rubbish. People spend money for the services of the above two guys, but I'm glad I'm not.
But my absolute favorite comes here, and is filled with all kinds of little gems like this:
"There are twice as many lawyers as a ratio of non-lawyers today as there were in the 1970's. We are competing for half of the business."
Now, this ain't necessarily so. It is only so if there is the same amount of legal work that there was in the 1970s. Is there? I don't think so. The internet, for example, has created volumes of new legal work that wasn't there in the 1970s. It also makes the assumption that all lawyers are working as lawyers. And any lawyer will also tell you that is false. They may maintain their bar membership, but they work in other industry, write books, or frankly just can't get a job. And of those who are working as lawyers, any number of them aren't competing for your work. For example, I don't compete for conveyancing work as I don't do conveyancing. Criminal lawyers don't compete with me as I don't do criminal work. So this whole assertion only works if there's the same amount of legal work in my particular field of competition and twice as many lawyers in that field as there were in the 1970s. That's an awful lot of qualifiation, isn't it?
But the logic sounds nice, doesn't it? Of course it does. And hey, a stopped clock still tells the right time twice a day. But the rest of the time? Not so much.
Stop the insanity folks. Just go do your jobs, do them well, and get on with it.
Love,
Anne
Monday, October 02, 2006
In Which Our Heroine Takes Her Driving Test
It had to happen at some point. You'd think, after 19 years of driving, that I'd be immune or exempt from having to take a driving test, but that would be wholly untrue. I'd let my US license lapse since they have to be renewed every few years as a revenue grabbing exercise by the State, and since I wasn't driving at home (or here, for that matter) it was ok to let it go. Besides, I don't have a home address in the US any more for them to put on the license so it wouldn't be able to happen anyway. But the good news was that if I passed my UK test, that license would be good until I was 65, barring suspensions for speeding, etc, none of which I plan to get.
That was the good news. The bad news is that I'd have to pass the test. And compared with the US, actually compared with any where else in the world, the UK is incredibly difficult. You spend about 40 minutes on the road, just you and the examiner, taking turns, following directions, heading across roundabouts, making sure all your signals, etc are correct. Be sure to check your mirrors every five seconds. I'm not making that up. Go over the speed limit, that's marked. Go more than 4 miles over the speed limit in any area, that's marked as a serious. One serious fault, you're done for. More than 14 minor faults, you're done for. If you do something so badly wrong, it is within the driving examiners powers to order you to pull over and you both walk back to the test centre, which may be a few miles away at that point.
And they're looking to mark you on everything, which is why less than half the people taking their test pass it. Go too fast, you'll get marked. Go too slowly, you'll get marked for being hesitant. Take the test in an automatic, your license won't let you drive a stick, and so on.
The person taking the test will be required to perform two manouvers. The options are reversing around a corner, parallel parking, reverse bay parking, and a turn in the road. You will not get to choose which two - the examiner gets to choose for you. Hitting the curb=serious fault. One in three people will also have to do an emergency stop. It isn't quite so bad as all that, in that the examiner tells you that you're going to do this, and checks to see if there's anything behind you, etc. Then you just drive along waiting for him to go "Stop!" at which point you slam on the brakes. the key seems to be not to panic, and react quickly (don't react quickly enough or hard enough on those brakes, and thank you for playing, we have no parting gifts for you). It is even ok to stall the car, so long as you use correct stalling procedure. But stall away, brake away, and if you for get to do a massive check of every possible blind spot on the car before moving off, that's a serious fault, and thy name is toast.
You can see what I was up against. I even took driving lessons, just to figure out what they wanted of me. The observation things were interesting - I do feel I actually learned something from them and not just how to pass the test.
In the end, I did incredibly well. The average for people who pass is 11 faults. I got five. Which is pretty incredible, really. I thought I'd lost it at one point when driving along a rather busy road with not much place to pull over, all of the sudden there were flashing blue lights and a siren behind me. Not the police - no, that would be too easy. Bomb disposal unit! Why? Why does this sort of thing happen to me? I've never even seen a bomb disposal unit on its way out before, so why now?
It didn't matter. I still passed. Go me! (Do I have a car? No. Do any of my friends have insurance that lets me drive their cars? No. So the point is? Of that I'm not quite sure yet.)
Love,
Anne
It had to happen at some point. You'd think, after 19 years of driving, that I'd be immune or exempt from having to take a driving test, but that would be wholly untrue. I'd let my US license lapse since they have to be renewed every few years as a revenue grabbing exercise by the State, and since I wasn't driving at home (or here, for that matter) it was ok to let it go. Besides, I don't have a home address in the US any more for them to put on the license so it wouldn't be able to happen anyway. But the good news was that if I passed my UK test, that license would be good until I was 65, barring suspensions for speeding, etc, none of which I plan to get.
That was the good news. The bad news is that I'd have to pass the test. And compared with the US, actually compared with any where else in the world, the UK is incredibly difficult. You spend about 40 minutes on the road, just you and the examiner, taking turns, following directions, heading across roundabouts, making sure all your signals, etc are correct. Be sure to check your mirrors every five seconds. I'm not making that up. Go over the speed limit, that's marked. Go more than 4 miles over the speed limit in any area, that's marked as a serious. One serious fault, you're done for. More than 14 minor faults, you're done for. If you do something so badly wrong, it is within the driving examiners powers to order you to pull over and you both walk back to the test centre, which may be a few miles away at that point.
And they're looking to mark you on everything, which is why less than half the people taking their test pass it. Go too fast, you'll get marked. Go too slowly, you'll get marked for being hesitant. Take the test in an automatic, your license won't let you drive a stick, and so on.
The person taking the test will be required to perform two manouvers. The options are reversing around a corner, parallel parking, reverse bay parking, and a turn in the road. You will not get to choose which two - the examiner gets to choose for you. Hitting the curb=serious fault. One in three people will also have to do an emergency stop. It isn't quite so bad as all that, in that the examiner tells you that you're going to do this, and checks to see if there's anything behind you, etc. Then you just drive along waiting for him to go "Stop!" at which point you slam on the brakes. the key seems to be not to panic, and react quickly (don't react quickly enough or hard enough on those brakes, and thank you for playing, we have no parting gifts for you). It is even ok to stall the car, so long as you use correct stalling procedure. But stall away, brake away, and if you for get to do a massive check of every possible blind spot on the car before moving off, that's a serious fault, and thy name is toast.
You can see what I was up against. I even took driving lessons, just to figure out what they wanted of me. The observation things were interesting - I do feel I actually learned something from them and not just how to pass the test.
In the end, I did incredibly well. The average for people who pass is 11 faults. I got five. Which is pretty incredible, really. I thought I'd lost it at one point when driving along a rather busy road with not much place to pull over, all of the sudden there were flashing blue lights and a siren behind me. Not the police - no, that would be too easy. Bomb disposal unit! Why? Why does this sort of thing happen to me? I've never even seen a bomb disposal unit on its way out before, so why now?
It didn't matter. I still passed. Go me! (Do I have a car? No. Do any of my friends have insurance that lets me drive their cars? No. So the point is? Of that I'm not quite sure yet.)
Love,
Anne
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