The Little Book of Just About Everything Else

out of office

2010-06-18T22:07:00.004+01:00

Apparently a journalist in the FT says that no one should have out of office messages - not in this day and age of mobile Internet devices (actually he says "blackberry and iPhone" - just in case you'd not noticed there are other devices out there)

I'd agree. Not because we should be on 24hrs, 7 days a week. Not because of course it is utterly reasonable to be available even if in a different time zone, or doing something else.

I'd agree as the journalist, Tyler Brule, says what 70% of the world think. "I have sent an email, therefore you should read it."

There is no point expecting an end to the torrent of mails, usual inane two line whines. There is no point expecting people to notice the polite notice, that you are away, doing something not at your desk, therefore cannot answer today and please ask someone else. There is no point, as anyone who actual works knows, you will still get cc'd and still get the mails and then the demands for replies.

No one reads the out of office. They ignore them.

Because work is now sending mails. Not doing things, or makings things, or writing anything more than FYI on the top of another series of forward mails and at the end is a demand for a report on something that has nothing to do with you or the original sender.

Mass instant communication - and all it is, is noise to show that people are "working".

Respect

2009-10-09T22:04:00.004+01:00

Respect is a much overused word. As is disrespect.

Having had another day of stuff thrown at me, some of it, a lot of it attitude. People with a high opinion of themselves, or more accurate a dissmissive attitude of others

Very disheartening to have people or persons actual be very rude and dismissive of you.

Being me is sometimes, not easy

"My God, My God why hast thou foresaken me....."

Flesh of my Flesh

2009-09-07T19:00:00.005+01:00

The thought started reading this:

"Ferraby loved everything to do with being a father, from wheeling the pram out in the afternoons to preparing a bath at the exact temperature: even to be woken up in the middle of the night was an acceptable part of fatherhood, establishing his connection firmly. But most of all he liked simply to be with the child, watching her, talking to her, feeling her minute fingers curling around his own. He felt no need for any more exciting hind of activity, these days; he whole leave was passing in this simple and tender fashion, and he would have chosen nothing else. "

The Cruel Sea by Nicholas Monsarrat

This stuck a sudden cord - not by the whole part which is poor Ferraby losing it and unable to stop himself having waking nightmares of sinking - but the besotted father, not wishing to hold anything but the flesh of his flesh close.

And that made me remember my grandfather lying in a hospital bed, in a gown designed to rob you of any dignity. Flesh of my flesh, his shoulder and arm despite being that of a ninety year old man, could have been mine- same broad shoulders, freckled skin, long forearm.

The stroke had robbed him of most of his speech and will. He lay mostly in the bed, move open eyes close, seemingly unaware of the world.

And he would not eat.

I ended up at one point feeding him baby food -combined with selective swearing this finally seemed to trigger his appetite. Then the hospital were persuaded to puree his food. Then, he finally started eating for them. He was like a large baby in the end; waking up at odd hours, making inappropriate noise and needed cleaning and helping with basic functions of bladder and bowl.

And it was not much fun at all. But then we had the only hope of him returning to being the cantankerous, casually racist, misogynistic bastard he was before where as a baby will, always of course, turn into someone great/good/worthwhile. Even a potential baby is invested with so much hope.

Alas I do stir the cup of bitterness I have prepared myself - the child we, I, would have had would have been three now.

And my grandfather - he was released, expelled more accurately, from hospital and the family found him a good -ish care home. As good as any can be expected really. And I left the fighting to get him to recover, to live to others for a few weeks, while I lived a bit of my own life. And in that short time he went and died. Maybe because I was away, maybe it was just time. No one aside from my grandmother seemed overly upset - he was just old. I felt guilty I was not more upset. And I had looked away. Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood but I cannot say, due to character traits lain out above, we were at all close. Which makes it worse.

"Il y en a toujours l'un qui baise, et l'un qui tourne la joue"
There's always one who kisses and one who turns the cheek

Again the Cruel Sea; though it is a French proverb I think.

I am childless and age creeps up on me - I fear I will be childless and alone come my end, or at least not much loved like my Grandfather. Perhaps that is what I must face.

Some things do not turn out how you want, no matter how hard wished for or worked for and some do.

Cynical experience over my hopeful heart says; "Life is not fair. At best she is impartial. At worst, downright vindictive."

All you can do is brave the Cruel Sea and roll with the waves and storms.

Translations from Personal Reviews

2009-08-15T21:04:00.004+01:00

Once or Twice a Year we have these in most places of work. Unlike school reports (where if you are lucky your teacher remembers who you are when writing it), work ones often decided bonus and promotion. You can be damned by faint praise or ambiguous words. What do the words actually mean? Some key phrases and the possible meaning behind them

TENACITY - a polite term for bloody mindedness or stubborn attitude that has worked in your favour rather than against you

EVEN HANDED - they mean that this person tries to offend no-one so does very little

PASSIONATE - over enthusiastic to border line obsessed with certain areas of work

COMMITTED - over enthusiastic to border line obsessed with certain areas of work

DEDICATED - over enthusiastic to border line obsessed with certain areas of work

KEEN - over enthusiastic to border line obsessed with certain areas of work

DRIVEN - over enthusiastic to border line obsessed with certain areas of work

FOCUSED - over enthusiastic to border line obsessed with certain areas of work

ENTHUSIASTIC - over enthusiastic to border line obsessed with certain areas of work

TEAM PLAYER - cannot complete a task of his/her own so involves everyone to help with it, making decisions and announcing to office what is going on. Also first to stop doing their job if something more interesting is being done by someone else and they can assist/take over doing it

IN TOUCH WITH THE BROADER PICTURE - Complains all day about how badly company/organisation etc is run, usually with jaundiced but sadly accurate facts rather than doing anything about how badly place is run

SELF MOTIVATING - have not actually spoken to him/her for months and they have not sent any reports in or attended any meetings, but still claiming expenses and saw them in the corridor last week, striding past whilst talking on a mobile phone.

SELF ASSURED - arrogant self opinionated and rude. Possible senior management material

NOT A TEAM PLAYER - failed to bring in cakes on birthday, make anyone tea/coffee, go to pub after work or go to Christmas party and seems to have an OK home life and no personal problems. Smugly happy so not popular.

QUICK THINKING - someone who thinks about what they are doing; not to be trusted and got rid of when redundancies happen. If they stay that long.

At The End Of The Day

2009-08-15T20:50:00.001+01:00

The sun quietly got on with setting – it did it every day and was well practised by now. With the casual easy of a brilliant artist it painted the horizon in reds, oranges and gaudy bold pinks, shot the stray grey clouds with the startling colours and bathed the side of trees and buildings in deep warm gold.

The long grass in the field by the side of the road shimmered like the sea and shadows stretched and lengthened, like a cat waking from sleep. Darkness rising and waiting to take over the whole ground, but at the moment only a contrast to the last, glorious huzzah of the day, a counterpoint to the spectacular light show in west.

The car tyres hummed on the road, the engine quietly growled along, like a slightly perturbed dog. Light bounced off the bonnet, refracting, dancing around. Intensely bright, the driver of the vehicle, squinted through dangerous dark shaded glasses – care worn hands, scarred and battered gripped slightly tighter the steering wheel. He, a large, slightly running to fat, slightly greying man, shifted in the drivers seat, unintentional making the car shimmy and shy like a young horse before a jump. It did not stray over either line, but the mistake made him grimace in disgust at the lack of control.

Fortunately he was alone, both inside the automobile and on the road. No one was beside him to admonish him, no other driver to flash their lights in alarm, no policeman to haul him over.

Just him and the sun, quietly setting across the wide flat landscape at the end of a long hot summer's day. And Miles Davis playing. The beginning “Flamenco Sketches”, starting in that unwinding and cool way that was at once a rush to the head and a release of tension, like that first sip of dark red wine, or the hit of water from the shower as the cares of the world were washed away, the tension between his shoulders and in the small of his back eased. The noise in his head turned off for a few moments and was replaced with calm.

He should hit shuffle on the mp3 player; change the music and the mood to something upbeat, to keep him alert and focused; He should not be thinking, reflecting, shooting glances to his left to admire the beauty of the great ball of fire slipping gently behind the horizon.

He should have left earlier, he should have arrived earlier. He should have planned better; so that at the end of a long day, he was not driving, tired and hungry the two hours from home.

Lots of things he should have done. Hundreds, thousands. This was why he was where he was, not somewhere else, though he was realistic enough to not think that somewhere else was on his own luxury yacht being hand fed peeled grapes by some scantily clad ex-super model.

But right at this moment, at this sudden apex of his life curve, because it was an apex, a highest point, he was driving along a quiet, blissfully traffic free and untrammelled by repairs, road, with Miles Davis playing and the warm summer sun, softly, caressing the day goodnight.

He exhaled, blew out the worries and fears of the day, pushed them out of his mouth with his breath. Took them from deep within himself, placed them in his diaphragm and pushed them away, in on long steady exhalation.

The bills, the passing years, the job that took too much from him both physically in time and emotionally in care, the ageing relatives that seemed to exist between life and death now with no joy or interest in the world, the sad disappointments and rank unfairnesses.

Gone, or at least pushed away in the exhalation. Put aside; 'parked' as that annoying, peppy, polished but above all young middle manager would say. No longer part of the moment.

Because the high point was now, he was on an open road, comfortable sat, listening to some nice music and enjoying the sunset.

He toyed with the idea of pulling over to watch it.

He dismissed it.

Not because he was late, or that there was no where to stop, or that it was self-indulgent. Though these were second, third and fourth thoughts that notice what he was thinking and rushed into the decision making process late, all a splutter, demanding to be heard, far too late as the decision was taken.

He did not stop.

The moment was an apex, a high point for all the constituent parts of the situation.

The open road, with the car moving at an acceptable, progressive but above all constant speed – not stopping, starting, bouncing around with our impatient road users in their urgent demanding efforts trying to get where they were going, endangering or impeding him. No sea of red cones, no flashing 40 signs, no pathetically chirpy young woman explaining on the radio, that due to a broken-down-lorry (now one word in the English language) there were “severe delays”. The car moving, the feeling of movement, of progression, of transit, of the transitory nature of the whole situation and life was tied up in the fact that the car was in motion.

Whilst the sun setting was the perfect backdrop, in this apex scene, the perfect moment. Not quite literally driving into the sunset, but some director- of a particularly cheesy melodrama - would have sat with with his camera filming frantically as the car sped along the road, gold and red sunlight all over it, the closing moment.

The end of the day.

Sadly unlike cheesy melodrama there was no closing moment, apart that rather final cold hard closing moment, in life. No happy driving away with the setting sun.

But the moment had that, the beauty and the tranquillity and the calm to it.

The music was a great soundtrack, though he probably, knowing his budget it would have to played by someone else, not use the original as here.

Bill Evans starting the tune, improvising over the cord changes, with Miles Davis coming in at just the right moment. The perfect mix, of reserve, of sadness and melancholy but with a “heh that's okay” shoulder shrug in there as well. Jazz, born of the blues, knowing sadness as well as joy, this encapsulated the end of the day feeling, the slight tiredness, the weary sad smile.

The last track on the album.

He must have played this tune so many times.

Actually now he thought about it, as the road began to come to a bend, he had played this at other sunsets, sometimes deliberately sometimes accidentally.

Escaping Birmingham, after a hellish day, the sun hitting the hills as he scudded down the M5, with only a few other drivers around. The nasty taste in his mouth after the unpleasantness of the day's business, the ache in his fingers from writing, the mobile phone firmly off. He had put the CD in the player, skipped forwarded, and carefully still of his speed and road position went past Tewkesbury toward Gloucester, the Sun on his right, the road painted red. The end of the day and all the stress and time stopped, or at least paused. Out of the loop and at peace.

Or sitting on the patio, a cool glass of something in front of him, cats hunting in the flowerbeds, the wood at the back of the house, full of summer noise, the music slowly reaching out its tentacles from in the house, so he was distracted from listening to the friends around him, but still captivated by their faces, animated and smiling and talking as the music filled his head.

Or the harsh winter, cold and stark coming back from work, and walking from where the car was parked, miles from the house, and the tune popping into his head, as the snow and ice that frosted the cars and roof tops went pink and red with the setting sun.

Roundabout.

He pushed the clutch dropped out of gear, down two gears, lifted his foot, slowing the car smoothly, calmly in above all pleasingly controlled way. Checked right, nothing, slowing still, making sure.

Then away, accelerating, round to the second exit, up a gear and off on another section of unblocked, uncluttered, lonely road.

Then rushing toward him, familiar buildings.

The tall towers of the disused power station, with light shooting through the rusting girders, the broken building sad and old, but some how less sad, with the soft dying sun light, the summer breeze moving the heavily leafed trees near it.

Flamenco Sketches finished, and something else on random played came on.

Something upbeat and poppy, with a repetitive and grammatically incorrect chorus but above all no soul, that had somehow found its way on to the player.

He turned off the music, sighing that the moment had now passed. Sad, that it was over, but happy that it had been good.

At the end of the day, it was just the end of the day. Like any other of the 13000 or so he had witnessed, many he had not really paid much attention to at the time.

The end of the day, with the night waiting.

The car sped on leaving the open road behind it.

Eurovison Hell

2009-05-16T21:34:00.002+01:00

Is there a support group?

Surely this comes under the Geneva Convention as torture or Cruel and Unusual Punishment.

I am being forced, AGAIN, by She Who Must Be Obeyed And Feared, to watch this - show is too small a word to encompass the sheer utter awfulness of it.

Ok Graham Norton is helping as very funny, but if it was not for my decision to self medicate on home made cocktails (Daiquiri's but now sadly out of Rum), would be gnawing my own leg off...

help..

The Tower and the Light

2009-04-01T21:42:00.002+01:00

The evening sun hits the cathedral
And the red bricks glow red - like a hearth stone, warm and inviting
and the roof is as green as a cricket pitch
cool and bright and fresh

and over the town, as the evening comes in, the tower is bathed in the dying days light
and it looks as if this was ever thus, England in the evening spring sun

and the sun goes behind the hill.

And the cathedral goes grey and dark.
And the bricks are old, and cold and dirty
And the roof is an old off green
And it is cold

Night is coming
The dark coats the land in a dark, soft blanket

The tower is gone, lost in the night sky

And then lights come on

And the tower is a beacon of light
Golden and bright
The colour of the sun
ethereal, floating over the dark land
shafts of light bouncing upward,
connecting the cathedral to the heavens

Kitchen Naming

2008-12-17T19:14:00.003Z

So looking at Kitchen brochures; I commented to friends there at the time that one, a concoction of black shinny plastic and fake marble was certainly one for the would be city banker-bachelor loft apartment, complete with the Porsche in the basement car park.

This then lead one friend to insist we renamed the range of kitchens, from "Tiverolli" and "Mocca Studio" to the more realistic naming criteria.

Purple plastic and grey marble effect worktop - newly made bachelor wanting to look trendy and cool
Gloss black doors, with chrome handles - pony tailed tosser
not so glossy black door, with wooden surround - wannabe pony tailed tosser
lime green doors with light gray work tops - Look-at-me kitchen for your thirty-something never married
coffee coloured units and doors - I don't actually use the kitchen, it is to look at, hence this impractical colour is fine
white units, white top, with built in door handle - bought by the builder as "deluxe kitchen".

Modern lack of communication

2008-11-11T21:16:00.004Z

In other social worlds there were rules.

Fish eaten on Fridays.

Only horses sweat.

Stand up when a lady enters the room.

Take your hat off in church.

Now we have e-mail - perhaps we should have some rules - for e-mail, for chatting, mobile phones etc.

1. Do not text while talking to someone face to face. Devote your attention to one thing at a time and actually you may actual effectively communicate.
2. E-mailing someone three lines about a subject is not actually working on something. Stop using e-mail as audit trail back covering exercise.
3. Do not start mails with no salutation or any personal touches - we've all done it, it is not nice
4. Do not use chat instead of walking over to someone to talk
5. or to use it to pretend you are working
6. cc'ing your boss on all your mails is not big, not clever and not a substitute to writing your reports or communicating properly.
7. Flaming is a bad idea. Really. You will be scorched. Move away from the keyboard!
8. Passing a mail to you to someone else to answer for you is rude - reply saying you getting someone else better qualified/less busy to deal with it please.
9. Never ever ever hit reply all without checking the circulation. Ruthlessly cull your own circulation lists. Limit the traffic.
10. Less is more. Send less mails or even Stop Mailing some people. Really try the phone or in person. Because, think what you are doing. What people now do all day is send each other memos or read them. Not even twenty years ago, we actually did this thing called work at work. Think how long you spend all day going through the slew of e-mails, demanding, pleading or simply the two liner to show involvement. Stop adding to this tidal wave of drivel! Write what needs writing. Ruthlessly cull you circulation list. Major cause of project over runs - reading all the two line e-mails from people trying to appear involved in the project.

Two postings in one month. Too much

Philosophy while Running

2008-11-08T12:53:00.004Z

Unlike lawn mowing, deep thought whilst running, does not have the same risks - such as mowing your own feet or more seriously, mowing part of a shrub and having to explain this fact to the head gardener (She Who Must Be Obeyed).

It does have the risk of missing oncoming traffic - if you happen to cross a road (which, as I am in England this is highly likely) or share the route with other users. Horses are very large animals. Having been nearly run over by a trotting hunter am now taking this as a serious risk. The other is dog walkers, or rather the dog, who thinks either a) this is jolly good game to chase you or b) decided you are a risk and chases you. You then have to translate the barks - is that angry woof or playful woof? Either way stopping is often required - in order for the owner to recover the dog

It has given me a business idea. Exercise your dog - I run and the dogs chase me like idiots for a hour. But I think the chances of being bitten and losing dogs too high, for it to be viable.

These aside, running early in the morning - 7:00 AM, when most sensible people have just hit the snooze button on the clock radio, is peaceful. Morning dew turns spiders webs into silver necklaces, draped gaudily around branches. Soft golden light, playfully illuminates the woods and the turning leaves. You are alone - in fact I have even seen the milkman parked up and not moving.

I do have a music player thing with me, but do not use it. Firstly to listen out for horses or dogs, secondly as lost in thought.

And I find I very quickly retreat into thought, mainly as your legs begin to ache, you need to not think, "I have hardly gone any distance" or "why am I doing this?" or "I am far too old to do this".

The regular rhythm of feet hitting the leaf strewn path, the puffing steaming breaths, the jangle of keys in pocket sooth - like a train running on a track, like a steady hypnotic chant.

Having run the route many times, it is familiar, so you do not look so much- and if you were not thinking of something else, you'd be thinking of the pain in your legs, not on the fauna and flora (Deer mainly. No chance of hitting them, they run away as soon as see you).

Possibly this explains the series of trips and falls - not the poor state of the bridleways. Too busy musing on the unbearable lightness of being you miss the large tree root or pot hole and end up flat on your face (four times now in seven months). I have scabby knees and an interesting scar on my hand to attest to this.

But I still think deep thoughts. As it is space - my space - in a busy day, in a busy world. No e-mails to answer, no calls to answer, no one else to attend to. And really that is all one needs - time and space, possibly the most valuable commodity to anyone.

Philosophy and lawn mowing

2008-08-24T23:08:00.003+01:00

Mowing the lawn and thinking do go together quite well. As long – if using electric, you do cut your own cable, or slice your own toes off, pushing a mower up and down the grass it is a good time to drop the brain into another gear, and ponder the great unknow-ables of life the universe and if Phylis in accounts is having an affair (again).

With a ride on – no too hard to drive and think I feel, but does depend on terrain.

As I attacked again, with aid of said electrical grass cutting implement, the patch of thorny scrub laughable called a lawn, my mind wanders, it that detached idle way around issues, and does the mental equivalent, of taking the back of the TV to work out where the funny noise is coming on

Perhaps not always a good idea, but it satisfies the curiosity- that itch to know and to explore. And hopefully nothing goes bang.

(note. Unless you are a TV engineer this will invalidate your warranty. In the case of buzzing TVs)

I have just, sold my house. So the lawn was actually my landlord's not mine. So my original house, which I spent years sorting out and spending money on is sold.

And this made me think about home and Homes. Because in English, home is not just a house, it can be a whole country, or a city or a street not just a house. We do not have “the mother land”. We have home. Which is more, well, cuddly, cup of tea and biscuit relaxed and dress down than the patriotic, hard line, dress smart and stand up straight, social realism of “motherland”. Nor is in Chez Nous – my place. It is not so hip, cool and casual or French.

Home is where you wear slippers

Home is where know where the mugs and tea is stored

Home is where you sit and just are, not having to do anything

It is not appreciated as it is rather like a comfortable old jacket you wear at weekends (I'm English. I wear jackets.). Comfortable – familiar, worn. Maybe stylish but, most of all it fits and feels well. But not thought about.

Perhaps that is a man thing? Women will wear shoes and clothes that are uncomfortable, because they look good.

Men wear stuff that fits. Then looks good. No man would do to his feet what women do to theirs with high heels. Men are either to wimpy or not insecure enough. Or possibly too lazy...

And then I run our of lawn and the Philosophy stops.

The Essays 4: An End to Universities

2008-05-05T09:59:00.002+01:00

Well another pop at another sacred cow. (This is turning into the seemingly dropped radio show Heresy). Universities the home of enlightenment, of elucidation or education.

Only of course it is not, which is why I say, down with it. Having survived its mangling, I feel I have a valid standpoint on this. The joke is always given:

Lectures:
A means of the information in the lecturers notes passing to the students notes, without the information passing through the brain of either.

Which people laugh at, as it is ridiculous. But this is how it is. As a student I was part of a compliant at one of our lecturers, as he was so bad. But really we should have fired 90% of them. The could not speak publicly, they cared little if they got their message across and the actually practical application of anything was beyond them.
These are the sort of people who complain of “dumbing down”. These are the people who say you “read a subject” at university. These are the smug so and so's who ruin education. Because they keep it a competition.

Rather than trying to get everyone educated – that is all understanding things, universities are an exercise in proving who is good at cramming for exams. And yes there are essays, and The Thesis, but exams are really it.
All universities tend to teach is how to pass written exams. Want actually someone who knows something, then universities are not the best places. Find someone who makes a living out of it, tends to be a better bet. Even in really practical subjects like computers and engineer, the real clever people are inventing Yahoo- how many of the internet pioneers were actually university professors and how many clever youngsters. How many professors were involved in designing Concorde? The Channel Tunnel? Inventing mobile phone networks? Start very successful companies? Very few.
Ok, it is a very sweeping generalisation, and not really true. There are lots of clever professors making money. And the universities have clever people in them. But universities are rigged not to help you learn, but to test you. You have to spend days getting a reading list. You have to research yourself things. No one shows you how to do anything. Most lectures are just the lecturer repeating his book at you – which is oddly the course book and costs £40.
So when these graduates come out what can they do? Well they can sit for three hours and regurgitate facts and formulae no problem. Actually rewire your house, fix your car, find a cure for some disease – then my faith in the system falls down. Truly stupid people get degrees. Really clever people sometimes do not.
The problem in England, which has spread I fear is that universities have some scared glow that rubs off on graduates. And actually no one asks -”So what does that mean you can do?” that is until the get to a work place and find, “oh dear I have to solve a real problem not regurgitate a known answer”.
In a meritocracy you are judge by your merit. Your worth to that society. Universities were born in the medieval period and hang overs from the class and rank system are still there. The value thing is “pass this test to prove you are clever”. It is not “pass this test to prove you can do x, y, z”.
I have a degree, actually. Makes me no better than anyone else, until I use that education to do something better than other people. Which I do not do. Most of what I studied does not affect my daily working life. Like a lot of graduates.
So the degree thing is like a club. A badge. A show off thing. And it makes me laugh when an estate agent or Bank Manger has BA (Hons.) or BSc (Hons) after his or her name on the business card. Because it proves nothing apart from you have bought into the “I passed the exams so I am clever” lie.
No, you are just good at sitting exams. If you could sell my house or arrange not to not lose my current account then you would have merit.
So what would I change? Make universities actually educate so people can do something other than pass exams.

The Essays 3: Let's get rid of Religion - but please don't cut off my head

2008-03-16T21:36:00.003Z

There are many things wrong with the world: global warming; corrupt dictators; and the propensity of certain pubs to sell ’pies’ which are actually casseroles with jaunty pastry caps on top. However , if you are going to change something, then let’s change something that will have a big affect.

Religion. (I have now a mental sound track playing, from Fiddler on the Roof. It is stuck on everyone singing “Religion! Religion!”). The problem with saying ‘Let’s get rid of religion’ is that some people take it very badly and threaten to cut your head off – which sort of makes my point.

Religion – ‘It is the opium of the people’. A saying of Karl Marx often quoted, though his argument is a lot more complex and of its time. People remember this particular part because it has a truth to it. A little religion, like a glass of wine with your meal may well be a good thing. A small prayer here, following most of the commandments especially the stealing and murder ones; all very good and beneficial.

Overdose on religion and the affect is more dramatic. People drunk on religion start stoning certain people, because, say they happen to be have slept with the ‘wrong’ person. They start to think that they are the ‘chosen people’ and everyone else is lesser people and not ‘special’ like them. They even blow themselves and innocent bystanders up in ‘holy wars’.

Religion, at least the organised type, is about putting a social order and control on the people. It has very little to do with thinking about the meaning of life and much, much more about your place in life and how you should live it. Hence, all the rules over shellfish, pigs, sexual activity and prayer times. Really – if there is a God (and I am not discounting the prospect incidentally) – do you think the supreme being, who is outside time and space even cares what you eat? Who you sleep with? And when or even if you go to a place of worship? You may say ‘you cannot know the mind of God’, I am going to take the radical step of assuming God is neither mad nor stupid – which means anything that hurts no one is not a problem for God.

So then, who came with all these rules? Oddly enough, I think it is the people who have the robes and do the chanting. After all, they benefit. If we just had ‘Think before you act and do as little harm as possible’ as the one commandment, it would rather cut down the need for priest types, wouldn’t it?

Cut out the bells and smells and “moral lecturing” they would be stuck doing useful stuff, like helping the poor maybe?

Now we could have a long list of the good and bad that religion has done, which actually is not my argument. (Though one for my list, is the refusal of the Catholic Church to allow the use of condoms. This has helped HIV/AIDS spread and kill so many people that it is tempting to call it mass murder.).
Why would I change Religion? Because it is a method of thought control and social conformity. It really is an opiate of the masses – you don’t have to think or reason or try to do the right thing yourself. Just do as the good book and the priests say and you are just and pious, no matter how idiotic. Kill the infidels, don’t allow blood transfusions, gay people cannot be adoptive parents, make women cover themselves all the time. Just Shut Up and Do as you are told. Which is just plain stupid. We are humans, because we think differently from the other animals. So we should use our brains, possibly God given, for making life and the world a better place. Not for trying to stick to silly rules or fighting over who’s God is best.

Religion is like an over protective parent. It treats people like very small children, with a list of ‘you must do this and not that’. In truth, with the widely educated societies we are becoming, we don’t need ‘Do and don’t do’ and rituals that control us. We need solid values and rational reasoning to help us in life. Not dogma, cant and patronising.

We need to be allowed to think as when we think we are human. When we do not we are just another dumb animal.

The Essays 2: Death to Buzzwords

2007-11-26T19:08:00.000Z

What I would Change?
Fantastic, an ideal opportunity to have a whinging rant at the world about any pet hates I have. Or for some blue sky thinking.

Oh I did it. I used a business buzzword. Which is what I really, really want to change.

I hate them. All of them. Ball park figure - I am English, What is a ball park anyway? Lowest hanging fruit – unless you work in an orchard this makes sense how? Thinking out of the box – I was not aware I was in one.

What is wrong with approximate figure rather than ball park figure? What is wrong with saying, easiest goal rather than lowest hanging fruit? Why not say – we need to try and be original.

Like any jargon or patois, management speak is a language design to include and exclude certain people. Should you not like using phrases such as ‘kicked into the long grass’ or ‘Elephant Traps’ then you are not a dynamic, go ahead, sharp and active person, capable of ‘pushing the envelope’ or developing ‘synergies across the corporate universe’. If you do one half of your organisation thinks you are the latter, the rest think you are either a) demented b) a toadying servile gimp c) both.

It has got so bad that people write books on it. There are competitions for Business Word bingo, and even British Airways has a feature in its in-flight magazine with the latest business words and what they mean.

Clichéd, hackneyed and tired they are used by Management and management wannabes to sound like they know what they are doing. And before you know it they are everywhere. Even ministers and politicians are using them.

So instead of using language to communicate, clearly conveying thoughts and ideas, it becomes a tool to divide and to be obstructive.

Is there anything more disheartening than sitting through a senior management briefing as they reel of a series of these phrases, occasionally linked together with the odd ‘we need to’ or ‘we must use’? By about the third phrase you are already beginning to nod off or are drawing fantastically complicated doodles on the note pad in front of you.

Because that is the real point. These phrases do not work. A simile is only good if cogent, relevant to the parties hearing it and usually fairly original. ‘Lowest hanging fruit’ sounds great to a bunch of fruit farmers when talking about getting the easiest thing done first. To people working on helping the homeless it does not really work.

They also, over time, the get baggage as saying them reminds people of other times they were used. Lowest hanging fruit often means going for the quick and easy, in a hurry, so we can all walk away from the project pretending it worked, rather than it actually achieving what it was meant to do.

Similarly, efficiency. We hear that world and we all think;- job cuts, pay cuts no Christmas party, no more biscuits at meetings. The actually meaning of efficiency;- the accomplishment of or ability to accomplish a job with a minimum expenditure of time and effort, is obviously what everybody should strive for. Who wants to put more effort in than is necessary? To be inefficient, is wasteful.

But in Management speak, ‘tightening our belts’, ‘effective case management ', ‘non-duplicative/reduces duplication’ are phrases always is used in favour of just coming straight out with ‘we are going to cut jobs’. Of course if you did say that some one would ask why. If you use enough buzzwords then no actually listens.

And this is the true reason for it existing, its raison d'être. Using management speech allows you to say that you have spoken to people but you have used so many buzzwords no one actually understands what you have told them. The old way of keeping the masses in place was to use other languages – like French above. Now we use buzz words, to baffle, bamboozle and befuddle.

Where as a simile or phrase was originally intended to shed light on a matter, now they shroud it in ‘lingo’.

Can you see the policy? Not for all the phrases such as capacity building, system change awareness and coordinated delivery.

The Plain English Campaign has the right idea. Our bosses, politicians and leaders have to stop using gobbledygook. Is it any wonder no-one real knows what they are doing? They should say what they mean and no longer hide behind trite clichés.

The Essays 1 :What I would change - Consumerism

2007-11-26T19:01:00.000Z

(the Financial Times (its a newspaper) is running an essay competition about "what I would change". So I tried out writing some essays. One went in, if I win I get a suit. But against the readership of the FT I feel possibly I little outgunned. The others, I am shoving here.)

It would be very tempting to go for an obvious problem here. What would I change? – no more wars, no more poverty, no more diseases, no more global warming.

I think this is trying to change the symptoms of the problem rather than the illness itself.

So I would change consumerism. Because the way we consume, is what is causing most of the problems

Consumerism works though. Greed is good. Look where it has gotten us, with sky scrapers, aeroplanes and digital watches.

I would argue that the world is built on commerce. I think there is a different between commerce and consumerism. It is one thing to buy and sell goods and services, and another to constantly have to buy things.

The problem with constantly having to buy things to maintain a society is that it is ultimately the snake that eats itself.

And consumerism is not human nature. The use it and throw it away goes against the grain for many of us – that is why our homes and offices are full of old stuff.

Seriously, right now, I challenge you to go through your house and find nothing redundant or old you have kept just in case you might need it. You probably have. An old mobile phone, an old sweater and old pair of curtains.

These items have all been replaced, but not because they are broken – usually. They have been replaced because we live in a consumer society. We have to buy, buy, buy. Get that bargain, the latest item, the In Thing.
An example. Most people change their mobile phone every six months. Most people do not use any of the new features on their new phone, or do anything different with it. Most people text or make phone calls with their phone – something possible with a model of six years ago.

Whilst it is fantastic that we now have a phone that can show you videos of Kylie Minogue, locate the nearest pub with GPS mapping and let you go on MySpace, who actually does this? Or actually wants to do this?
Most of us get a new phone as it was the latest thing. We were sold it, rather than seeking it. And we are sold a new one in six months. All the effort to make that product and it has a life of six months. And the only real reason we change it is that, we have been sold the new one.

Magnify this with cars, washing machines, clothes and all the other stuff we buy and suddenly you can see the pattern.

We change for fashion or for the sake of change. And this model needs to be maintained – there are now hundreds of factories and millions of people working making all these things and selling them all. This is why certain items no longer seem repairable. We no longer make things to last, but make things in the certain knowledge that it does not have to last, cannot last, as we need it to be replaced, as they want to sell you a new one. And just to make sure it is redundant they make new ones better, faster, sleeker and cooler.

And it is not as if this new stuff makes us happy. Usually, just as we get comfortable with a new car or new phone is when we change it.

More and more of your income, is spent on things other than shelter and food. So there is less and less money to be spent on all the problems that really matter. Rather than spending the earth’s resources on useful, needed things:- green energy, medicine, affordable housing, we waste it with consumerism.

Please recycle away, but if you changed your car every six years rather than every three would that not be better? Maybe stick with the same washing machine rather than getting a new one with the new kitchen? Do you really need yet another cashmere jumper?

This is all the change that is needed. Value you what you have, buy what you want, not what you are told to want. Allow human nature and market forces to work with this. Buy a product that will last and keep using it. Buy it because you will use it – by all means buy luxuries if you will enjoy them. Nothing is a waste if it is used and enjoyed. But just to buy because you can costs so much more than currency.

Autumnal Pictures

2007-11-02T15:11:00.001Z

This was the Eden project in September. (camera phone Samsung D900i 3 megapixel)

This was outside the office today:

(G600 5 Megapixel camera - focus not fantastic.)

A Dog Walking Prayer

2007-10-12T16:16:00.000+01:00

I must go to the hills again
Where the earth meets the sky

Where the wind howls around your head
And where there is the buzzard’s keening cry.

And all I ask is a clear path, on which to walk
And, on its route, a sheltered meadow in which to lie

And all I ask is a clear day, with not too many clouds in the sky,
And all I ask is a lonely place, with out too many people passing by.

And all I ask is the distant sight of a village church steeple,
beside it a sleepy pub; with a garden and a cool spot out of the sun

And all I ask, is at the end of the day when the walking is done
When the shadows length, and I am too tired to run.

Is a bowl of water and the bone I am due.
Is somewhere to rest my paws, and in my dreams, rabbits pursue

The Besuited Man

2007-08-17T16:13:00.000+01:00

My suit is my armour
Can't you see?
The cloth turns aside arrows.
The pinstripes protect me.

Let others their worn denim or corduroy prescribe
I am happy when in a suit I am spied

Something that fits- and fits me best
I am not happy in a string vest

Clothing you can wear anywhere
For which few doors are barred
A besuited man is a suitable man at large

Maybe as all formality is dead
Maybe fashion says I should look like,
I just stepped out of bed

But as people judge by looks,
then look and see
As the besuited man,
the smart man,
the well dressed man.

Is visibly me

Bad Advice - What Real Men Do

2007-08-07T22:18:00.000+01:00

The things that people expect Real men to do

Get Drunk At Any given opportunity - if you don't get utterly leg less you are not a real man
Ogle at any passing female who is even slightly attractive. Irrespective of context, time, place. E.g. Doctors, policewoman. Real men have a huge sex drive
Eat the hottest curry possible. Real men can take the pain; the meal is an opportunity to look hard not eat nice food.
Violence or threats of violence are always a solution. Even if he is twice your size and you are more the shape of the Michelin man than he-man, act as if you are as good as Andy McNab in a fight situation.
You are a rule breaker. Act like a career criminal. Even if you have never even got a parking ticket, Real men have their own rules. Laws are for other people, etc
Spend lots of money. You are well off. Obviously not super rich, your are no toff, you work, but Real Men hare largess.
Worship football. In fact all sport, no matter how obscure you must know about if not have tried your hand at semi-pro or retired due to injury. Badminton, show jumping and tennis do not count. Horse racing just about.
Drive too fast, in a very big car. Even if you live near work, and have no family, a huge saloon is required. Hatch backs and people carriers are a no-no. Estates not good. Four-by-four is ok as long as it is not a girlie RAV4 or similar
Read a tabloid. Never a broadsheet. Certainly not a novel unless it is an Andy McNab or is something gritty or hard-boiled. Books on sport or war are good
Military experience is very handy. Always claim some.
Children should be called "ankle bitters" and generally ignored/bullied
Women are "skirt" and generally ignored/ogled/bullied. Apart from mothers who are feared/worshipped
Green vegetables, salad and fruit are for not for Real Men
You are an island, a rock, a fortress and need no help from anyone. all men do this - especially if lost.

A Hot Dog Day

2007-08-07T22:00:00.000+01:00

The sun turns the air to the consistency of treacle.
Basking in the sun are the teeming people.

Swarming on any open space, like kicked over ants’ nests.
Women in bikinis, men down to their string vests.

Flesh already turning a bright cherry red.
And people eat outside, as if it were the med.

A Black Dog pants in a drought ridden tree’s shade.
And it is so bright that all the colours fade.

For a short, short time, it is sunny and warm.
And the only people unhappy, are those who tend lawns.

(ok written last summer)

Pride In One's Work

2007-07-24T14:21:00.000+01:00

Even I, a dyed in the wool lower-middle management clone, even I, cynical bitter and twisted as I am, even I, safe in the knowledge that what I do does not matter, try to do things properly.

Some of it is stubborn pig ignorance – some of it habit but mainly it is a perverse pride. Even if everyone else just cuts and pastes their reports from articles on wikipedia, even if most of the data they produce is meaningless garbage spilled out from some data base that bares no resemblance to reality, even if no one reads what I write and what I do is utter pointless, I will do it properly.

Maybe not well, or perfectly, but you will get what you asked for/need. Should some one need the last quarters results in a pie chart, and run down of the critical issues since the last meeting and the outstanding testing for a project done by Tuesday, they will get it.

Is it is partly my own insecurity –not in my job but emotionally – that I do not want to let people down. Partly that I am honest. I did sign a contract to do this and I will do this. And I think that is no bad thing.

So many other people do not seem to care if what they do is wrong, poor or faulty. The utterly selfishness, lack of pride in one’s work is breathtaking. Having visited hundreds of factories and workshops, and dealt with a great many builders, electricians, plumbers and roofers I am still amazed by how they treat their work.

Slap dash

Haphazard

Careless

Things don’t work, or are broken or so poorly done as to be nearly, but not quite useless.

So is this just a rant then?

Well no. I think it is cultural thing. I think the lack of respect, especially in the UK (note to Americans : its is the small selection of islands, off Europe, you use as an airbase) for trades people and anyone not in a suit and tie and “in charge” means that no one has any respect to what they do as "work" anymore

It is all about money. Ok the bad old days of “loadsamoney” is gone, but there is a hangover from it. Commercial gain and capital is all that matters.

No one reads History, or English Literature for the joy of it at University. They want jobs, so they study management and try and get on "Grad Schemes". And why wouldn't they? ho wants to get in 20 grand of debt studying Elizabethan culture and the rise of the Roman Empire, to then work in a call centre?

Doing a job well does not matter anymore. Even what it achieves does not matter. What matters is how much you are paid and how rich you are. Period.

Added to this that consequences of doign a job badly are nill (anyone know anybody fired for incompetence? Aside from big executives resigned after being caught defrauding the company, making a complete mess years running).

Doing it well, and being respected by your peers for it does not happen.

We judge success and happiness by the size of bank balance, house, car and flash clothes.

The Protestant Work ethic is dead.
The Fast Buck is how we are.

A Boy Running

2007-07-24T13:35:00.000+01:00

Arms and legs pumping
Head lolling
From side to side,
As he is running
No longer fast
Not with any speed
But he keeps moving
Filled with the need

To escape
To flee
To evade

Running on emotion
All energy spent
Tears mingling
With the sweat
Legs heavy
Lungs bursting for breath
A boy running

He hasn’t got there yet

25 May 2007

The Difference is the Distance

2007-06-11T11:54:00.000+01:00

The difference between a rut and a grave is the depth.
The difference between life and death is a breath.
The difference between happy and sad is a smile.
The distance between you and me is not a mile.

The end is the end, is the end in itself

The difference between left and right is only the side.
The difference between old and young is the length of the ride.
The difference between the start and the end is the time.
The distance between you and me is not on a sign.

The end is the end, is the end in itself

The difference between one and the other cannot always be seen.
The difference is, well, you know what I mean.
The difference is what you make it to be;
That is the difference and the distance between you and me.

The end is the end, is the end in itself

"Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad." - Euripides (480-406 B.C.)

Another Day Begins

2007-05-25T09:42:00.000+01:00

And another day begins.

And the alarm goes off so early that it is still dark, wailing away like a bereft and hurt child, before you can club it to silence.

And another day begins.

And you lay there in the dark, caught between the blissful unconsciousness and tired consciousness, between duty to get up and the desire, the deep need to sleep.

And another day begins.

And the alarm goes off again. You club it senseless again, and lie there, with an aching bladder and the foul taste in your mouth. You are awake.

And another day begins.

And the hot water isn’t on yet, and you cut yourself shaving and there are a pile of yesterdays bills among the detritus on the kitchen benches, and the milk is off and the toast is burnt and the kettle boils away to itself, un-notice un-loved and un-wanted.

And outside the rain slashes down and the trees read up to the sky with cold skeletal hands, begging for salvation

And people and buses, and cars and trains hustle and bustle by, sickening keen to start the day

And the cheery, buoyant and above all irritating radio presenters introduces another, sickening, cheery, buoyant, and above all irritating pop song, by another cheery, buoyant and above irritating pop star as you try to get you head straight before you brave your way to work, as;

Another day begins.

Just like all the others, with all the joy the light and life taken out of it.

Another day begins.

With always so much that has to be done, and so little that you want to do.

And another day begins.

To merge with the last, in a sea of grey, bland, memories.

Sparrow’s Flight

2007-05-14T16:24:00.000+01:00

Out of the darkness,
into the light.
The sparrow’s flight,
takes it

From the cold stormy night,
into the warmth, the heart’s delight.
Suddenly.

Weaving, darting, through the rafters,
full of life and joy and laughter,
the little bird flies.

It sings, it sings,
high and clear.
So all around can hear,
the melody of its song.

But all too soon it is gone.
Even as the song’s echo, lingers on.

The bird flies in by a window and out again.
From the dark night and back again.
Within our reason, and beyond our ken.

A few wing beats, a swift flight.

A short burst of song.

For my grandmother, Gwen (1922 – 2007)

2007-01-26T23:01:00.000Z

The problem with writing poetry in the dark, is that it is like life.

You can only guess at what mark you are making and whether it makes any sense. And even when you are finished you probably cannot see the whole thing.

Like life, you grope for meaning and to create something. But you cannot see what you are doing.

And should you actual see it - it probably is a big mess of condictions.

I write poetry in the dark

2007-01-26T23:00:00.000Z

I write poetry in the dark, searching for meaning
not seeing, only feeling.
I grope in my enforced blindness for the words; the meaning; for a truth.
I write poetry in the dark, sober or drunk it is a blessing
My fingers or pen connects to the back of my brain and the words and the emotions pour out. A dark, polluted river of thoughts from my soul.
Free from me, unleashed and no longer dammed, contained, constrained.
I write poetry in the dark, a glimmer of light in the nothingness.
The last glowering, glowing embers from my mind and my will.
Battling sleep and fear and worry and necessity;
chiseling out the only time I can.
To be me
I write poetry in the dark, so I am me
for a few stolen minutes
I am me
for a few precious, stolen minutes
I am me
Before sleep takes me
11/01/07

An Autumn Walk

2006-12-06T22:18:00.000Z

From high above in the broken sky
I hear the crow’s harsh guttural cry
Does he call to me, far below?
Or to someone I do not know?
His voice, raucous and coarse, carries on the cold air
I turn my head, looking here and there
But the caller I cannot see
Even if he were calling to me.
What does he say, with his throaty cry?
What does he say and why?
Is it to warn of cold winter looming?
Is it to warn of fleet footed time passing?
Is it to warn of the day and the years growing ever short?
Of life and work becoming ever more fraught?
That we will all soon pass away?
And that our struggles and woes will, with us fade one day?

And the golden and red leaves whisper in the wind.
And the sun plays hide and seek in the clouds
And the morning, idly, turns into the afternoon

Spending Time

2006-10-31T10:52:00.000Z

We spend our time;
Heedlessly,
Recklessly,
Wantonly
And extravagantly
Not until we have spent nearly all of it.
Nearly last every precious drop.
Do we know its true worth.

We spend our time as if we have endless credit
But when we finally receive the bill of want we have spent,
Then we see
That it is all on trivia and fripperies

Not Going Well

2006-10-31T10:39:00.000Z

It may not seem, or possible it does, that I am a wage slave, grinded down every day by hard labour at the coal face of corporate life.

Sadly I am.

It gobbles up time, like a starving dog with a plate of prime steak, leaving me we scant seconds "to stand and stare" let alone attend to minor things like shopping and cooking.

I use to work around 60 hours a week (ish). Not counting the time spent in traffic jams (note to town planners, how to get people out of cars. Offer an alternative that works. Why would I want to spend more money to sit in the same traffic jam in a dirty cold bus? Why build vast housing estates miles from places of work? And not near any shops. Town lack of planning really.)

Now it is around 40 hours. I found that doing my job, doing it poorly, or well makes no real difference. As long as do not actual defraud the company or physically assault someone, then I have a job.

Sadly though, work is what we are. It defines us, gives our lives structure and purpose. Yes you can have a wild social life and great friends and family, but first question you get asked on meeting someone "what do you do?". If your answer requires an explanation you have, what I call, a pretend job.

If you like me, you are one of those middle management clones, who shuffle paper and now electronic mail from one place to the other, taking up air, space, money and time and actually doing nothing remotely helpful in the main. Or, possibly, doing a job that if the company in question had employed half decent management would not need doing. Like HR. They use to do the admin for employment - now they do the interviews, the discipline the training. Surely a boss should know who they need to do what? If they are any good? Similarly Quality Management. They write processes on how to do things then check to see if people follow them. So why doesn’t the boss decide how to do things and then see that his staff do it?

Pretend Jobs. Not real, like a Doctor or a Farmer, or a Builder. We make nothing. We create nothing, we only exist because the leaders are so colossally stupid, or too busy going on jollies to see Man U play or racing at Ascot.

And we have to spend hours and hours in air conditioned glass houses, in places like Slough industrial estate, pretending what we do matters.

As you can see the play isn't going well...

2006-09-10T00:04:00.000+01:00

Sorry someone has asked me to write a play (well they had a idea they thought somebody should write a play about and said I'd have a go) and this is taking up my creative juices.

That and all those boring things like work and such like, taking my time up.

Normal service resumed shortly - when I have determined what normal actually is.

Literally Mindedness

2006-08-29T15:07:00.000+01:00

On a grave stone “Not Resting but Sleeping.”

Cannot think why, if this was really the case, why they all objected so much to my opening up the tomb to get them out. I mean who wants to sleep in a tomb? – and they had been there since 1892, so surely time to get up and about a bit?

“Glad to be of Service”

Highly unlikely- more likely you are fawning to get a tip.

“Have a Nice day”

Surely that is my prerogative if I do or do not have a nice day?

“Alright?” or “how are you?”

As you don’t really care or want to know why ask? Please, don’t bother. Just get on and ask what you wanted to ask which will probably involve me parting with money/time/both for no discernable benefit to myself.

“Can you help me?”

I don’t know – what do you need? Sorry, general people in distress or need I will help if I can but saying “can you help me?” and waiting for me to say yes or no is very loaded. No makes me feel like a heel and you feel low, even if I am in a hurry, late etc. If I say yes and then you ask the way to somewhere which I invariable do not know it has wasted all our time. Why not say “Can you help me? I need….” Other wise I am trying to guess what you need want and my imagination is over active and I worry it may be that you need a kidney or £10.50 to get Shepton Mallet tonight because your brother’s dog sick or you want just one more person to join your branch of the Holy Saint Bartholomew New Refrom Church to get your own pew cushion. Help me out here.

“Eyes bigger than your stomach”

Making personal remarks about someone’s appearance is meant to put them off eating? And if this was really the case they should eat more as they would be very thin.

“Extreme….”

Usually isn’t extreme.
Extreme makeover is actual remodelling – it is not a makeover and a make over is a makeover. Knocking walls is not a makeover that is rebuilding. And it is not extreme – it is called building a house.
Extreme Sports. Are not sports, as there is little in the way of competition as no one else is stupid enough to carry out the highly dangerous activity.
The exception is of course Extreme housework. Doing the iron in three foot of ragging torrent of water, is an extreme way of getting out of doing it on a regular basis.

“It will just take five minutes”

It will never just take five minutes. Face it will take ten, if not fifteen. And I will get hot, sweaty and probably get some rip/stain on my clothing doing it. It is a lie.

“Can I have a word?”

No, but you can have a brief chat. This is not the Archers, but real life. Try and use real sentences please.

“I was wondering…”

Means it is already booked and done and I will have to do it, but now having done this, you feel guilty about not consulting so you will ask me about it. If you disagree will cause massive argument/stress period. This is a typical boss/girlfriend trick. Agree for you to do something with out you knowing about it.

picture

2006-08-15T13:24:00.000+01:00

2006-08-15T10:29:00.000+01:00

Once upon a time,
summer would last forever.
Once upon a time,
the sky was bluer, the grass was greener.
Once upon a time,
I had a place, I knew where I stood.
Once upon a time,
things were going to get better.
Once upon a time,
I had time.
Once upon a time.
Once upon a time.

on leaving Lilac Cottage 15/7/01

2006-08-15T10:16:00.000+01:00

The Men's Toilet

Okay not a pleasant subject – that is rather the point. Why is it that people – especially people who are supposedly maintaining public facilities think that it is acceptable if men’s toilets are not cleaned?

I mean it is not like it is any particular toilet. From two-bit cafes to gleaming corporate headquarters they are always a mess. Wet floors, multiply non-functioning soap dispensers, no paper towels, toilet bowls last cleaned in 1987, urinals full of chewing gum, the list is endless. Is it because they assume men like things messy? Or is it because men don’t complain?

Decor

Decor nonwithstand, there is ingrain dirt. Nobody, ever, cleans men’s toilets properly. Usually decor is white or white and brown tiles, with chrome taps.

Occasionally, you will come across the “trendy” bathrooms, which have frosted glass doors to cubicles and polished steel trays full of pebbles as sinks. They may also go all continental and have holes in the floor to crap in. Urinals will be steel plates on the wall with a grilled over gutter under your feet so you can see what you’ve passed flowing beneath you. This will be filthy too, but with the added disadvantage of being so trendy as to be unusable.

Urinals

Usual there is an unidentified puddle beneath them, that looks just shallow enough that you can stand in it safely but in fact is just deep enough to seep into your shoes. You try and convince yourself that it is water from the flush pipe, but it probably isn’t. Somebody usual has urinated all over the floor and wall or the urinal is blocked by accumulated chewing gum and it overflows – often just at the point of no return when you are urinating, forcing you to jump back, urinating all over the floor.

See above for the the trendy places.

Toilet Bowls

Somebody has always been there first and made a mess of it. Even if you enter with the cleaner coming out, it is beyond hope.
Cigarette burns in plastic seats seem the favourite. And 50% of the time it is obviously somebody who has been on a week-long curry n’ real ale festival was in there ten minutes ago. Often they have forgotten to flush.

Toilet Paper

Check before you start, as it will not be out, but will have only two and a half sheets length left of single ply of the cheap stuff. That or it is reams of the tracing paper you thought only schools used, that is more likely to cut than to wipe.
You may try and get some paper towels if the toilet paper has run out.

Paper towels

There will be a dispenser. It will be bust, or nobody can be bothered to load it, so the paper towel or roll is left on top of it. Hence, the towels are scattered all over the place, and those that are not are sodden from people with wet hands trying to pick them up.

Taps and Sinks

The sinks are always small and have no plug. There will be two taps – mixers are for sissies. So you have a choice: if there is any hot water at all, scold your hand off or getting it so cold that you spend hours afterwards trying to get feeling back in it.
You may find a separate hot water heater with a third tap, for hot water, this will not work at all, or deliver a tiny dribble of water that will be icy, just until your about to give up, then will go blister hot for just long enough to burn you.

Soap

If there is any at all it will of an odd colour originally but is now ingrain with dirt and grim as to be mainly black. There may be dispensers on the walls, but usually they will be empty, or contain some pink stuff that is supposedly soap but is stuff that just sticks to your hands and does not come off. If you dry your hands with the paper towels, bits of it will stick to hands for hours.
Occasionally there will be pump action soap dispensers. When you try and work them, they will always not work for two pumps, then will suddenly spurt out at an odd angle all over your arm. Again this stuff will not come off.

Hand Dryers

These are automatic hand chapping devices. To get them to work properly will always require twice as much time as it would take to just shake them repeatedly outside the window. The timer on button press ones will require you to press the button twice, wetting your hands all over hand on the wet button. Sensor ones, will need you to hold your hands so close to the nozzle without moving, that one small part of your hand will burn and the rest remain wet.

The Little Book of Just About Everything Else

2006-08-14T14:11:00.000+01:00

Full of the knowledge and wisdom of the world - such as:
What you should have listen to your mother saying, but didn't
Instructions that make no sense
Really glib advice
Criticisms that work for anyone.
"You want to have you cake and eat it..." Well obviously. You would not wish to eat someone else's cake now, would you? That would be theft.