status anxiety

Circles

2012-01-24T09:13:00.002+00:00

The recruitment consultant was right. It's not often one has the opportunity to say (write) this, but he was.

"Most people who accept a counter offer will still leave after about 6 months"

He told me all the reasons why I shouldn't accept the counter offer - even sending me an article about it (written by a recruitment consultant, of course, on a recruitment consultant's website). He stood to make a tidy sum if I took the job at [large American corporation], so he wasn't exactly objective.

But, much to his chagrin, I accepted the counter offer. And from that day, my role gradually moved further and further away from what I'm good at and enjoy (being a specialist) to what I'm good at but don't enjoy (being a generalist). The eternal dilemma of a technical specialist: the career path. There comes a point in your career as a software engineer where you either embrace the idea of "management", leaving the detail behind in order to progress, or you cling to your speciality, because that's the only way you can make sense of your role. To me, reward is only possible when I'm designing and delivering systems myself, not when I'm organising a team to design and deliver systems.

At every meeting with my manager, we would have the same conversation:

"I don't enjoy my job at the moment"
"But you're so good at it!"
"But I don't enjoy it"
"But you're so good at it!"
...

and so on, until we finish the coffee. It's not as if I hadn't warned him repeatedly, albeit in a roundabout way.

The problem was, I was trapped by the platform, and I guess he knew that. If I wanted to continue to work with the technology I am a specialist in, and not travel far from home, my options were limited. There was:

[large American corporation] whose offer I had turned down. Interesting, the colleague who did take the job returned after a few months - it was, apparently, horrendous.
[large American corporation] who had rejected me a couple of years before. Who, incidentally, are currently making people redundant.
The current company

In that context, staying was the only sensible option, unless I could find another speciality.

The problem with a speciality is that you have to have been doing it for a while for it to become a speciality. Starting a new career would mean dropping down to a salary that would not keep me in the manner to which I have become accustomed (to coin a phrase). But looking over at my friends who still worked at the company where I was originally trained (and where I was when I started blogging in 2003), I spotted a possibility.

When that company made the decision to take their IT department offshore (yes, India), this removed the need for in-house analyst/programmers, but created a need for a "middle man" between the business and the IT developers. A Business Analyst. Someone who needs many of the same aptitudes as a programmer, but is not tied to a particular platform or technology. A specialist in gathering, structuring and documenting business requirements to deliver change to the business. In an off-shored environment, Business Analysts are both vital and numerous.

After a whirlwind recruitment process (it helps to have contacts), I will start my new job next week at the company where it all began.

And whilst I'm fully aware that it's not "the answer" (which would be not having to work at all, if I'm honest), it's certainly an answer, in that it will allow me to:

walk to work
work in town, rather than on a soulless Business Park
earn a similar salary
be a specialist
not have to go through the "management" dilemma again for a while

Not for the first time, my life has taken a circular route. But that's fine by me.

2011-03-14T20:55:00.001+00:00

And it came to pass that the big American corporation offered me a job.

And it came to pass that I told my manager.

And it came to pass that they matched the salary offered by the American corporation.

And it came to pass that I didn't need to leave at all.

Result!

The news in (not very) brief

2011-02-27T10:19:00.005+00:00

I've applied for a new job.

Same as what I do now, but for a large, American corporation.
Same as what I do now, but 30 miles down the road, rather than 5 miles up the road.
Same as what I do now, but for 30 - 40% more salary.

30 - 40%.

And the company I'm at now wonders why they find it hard to recruit. Over the past few years, they've benefited from a couple of big companies in the area either making people redundant or off-shoring their IT to India (or both). They've benefited from those people who have ties in the area so want to find a job locally. The majority of these people took a pay cut to work there, because our line of work is so specialised, you have to take what you can, when you can.

But 30 - 40% just shows how behind the game they are.

It was a no-brainer, I had nothing to lose. I had to give it a try. Me and several others from where I work.

Let's face it, I don't do this work for the love of it, I do it for the money. One pointless corporation is no better than another. The extra money would mean we could refurbish our kitchen diner significantly sooner than if I stayed at the current place.

So, two interviews down (telephone, then face to face) and I'm playing the waiting game...

From hopefully gaining pounds in one area, to definitely losing them in others. Since June last year, I have changed my diet, adopting a "pre-agricultural" regime (also known as "Paleo", "Stone age", "hunter gatherer" etc.). Essentially, I no longer eat cereal-based products (bread, pasta, rice, breakfast cereals etc), the idea being that although our technology has evolved to cultivate and produce these products en masse, our bodies have not evolved to properly digest them. Particularly those of us with the most primitive blood type, O. (And I am O+)

I have spent many a year sneering at low-carbohydrate diets (for this is what it is), but having read the theory behind it and seeing the results (lost around 3 stone and at least 2 dress sizes), I am a true convert.

As a low-carber, there are some comments that are inevitable:

"Oh, the Atkins diet"
Well no, it's not actually. Any diet that tells me I can't eat fruit is not a diet I would want to follow. Fruit is arguably the most natural food for a human being.
"I couldn't do it. I love bread, I love pasta"
Do you think I don't? But let's think about bread for a moment. Think about the amount of grain that you need to make enough flour for one loaf of bread. Think about the processes that the grain of wheat has gone through to become a loaf of bread. Though we may think of bread as a "staple", it is a highly processed food. And a food that would not be available to primitive, pre-agricultural man. So for me, bread is now an occasional treat, and one that I savour.
"But what do you eat?"
Meat and fish. Eggs. Vegetables. Fruits. Nuts. Seeds. Anything that is essentially unchanged from its natural state (other than being chopped up and/or cooked). I also allow myself dairy products, although the pure version of the diet argues that milk and its various sidelines would be unavailable to primitive man (how do you milk a wild animal?).
"But what do you have for breakfast?"
Yes, breakfast is the tricky one. Toast is out. Cereal is out. Bacon and eggs every day, that just can't be particularly healthy. So I have berries and natural yoghurt, topped with toasted nuts. At weekends, I allow myself a pain aux raisins, a bit of toast or eggs and bacon.
"What about a quick lunch when you're out and about? You can't just grab a sandwich!"
No, you can't. Eating on the go is probably the trickiest thing about the diet, because our lunchtime outlets are just packed to the gills with sandwiches. Browse the aisles of Marks and Spencer for a takeaway lunch, and virtually every salad contains pasta, rice, couscous or legumes. So you end up assembling your own lunch from a selection of disparate ingredients. A packet of cooked chicken here, a slightly dreary side salad there.

I allow myself the odd sweet, the odd cake, the odd chip (for potatoes are also not part of the regime). And when I have them, I really savour and enjoy them.

I never feel bloated, but equally I do not feel hungry. I eat plenty. I eat differently. I eat delicious, natural, home-cooked food.

And as a result, I maintain a healthy weight. All the weight I gained through steroids and inactivity, I have lost. And more.

It's given me one less thing to worry about.

Anyway, how are you?

Meet...

2010-12-07T19:25:00.002+00:00

... the new project.

In its infancy at the moment, but with "web-time" at a premium, I'm liking the snippetiness of it.

Will see how it goes...

UPDATE: I have decided to "break the link" between the new blog and this one, as I don't want to rule out introducing people I actually know (*gasp*) to the new one. So, if you want to see it, remove "the" from the url above and if you want to comment, remember: you don't know me!

Bye

Treat this place like a hotel, etc.

2010-07-23T20:26:00.003+01:00

Yeah, I know. Not been here for a while. Too much life, not enough time, so it would seem. How did I ever find time to do this anyway? Well, I've deigned to drop in and write something, so you may as well hear me out.

A funny thing happened to me at work the other day.

We were having a meeting about testing the project I'm running. Like most software development projects, it's based on an idea put forward by a senior "user" (as we call them). I designed the solution and have built it along with a colleague, over the past couple of months, in close consultation with my users - my customers.

The users for this project are unusual, in that they haven't been involved in projects before - they're far too busy actually transacting the business to worry about projecty things, deadlines, timescales, GANTT charts and milestones. So when the project manager asked the question:

"What if you don't finish testing when you plan to?"

The response came from the senior user:

"Well, we carry on testing until we're happy with it, don't we? It's a no brainer!"

I could have kissed him. Could have, but didn't. (That would have been strange).

In case you're sitting there thinking "but surely, what the man said was just sensible? Logical?", then I don't think you understand the world in which most software developers operate.

Twelve years, I've been in the business of delivering software and twelve years I've waited for someone to say "Let's just do this properly. Let's take the time it takes to build it right. Let's take the time it takes to test it thoroughly. Let's deliver it when it's ready." Twelve long years.

I really could have kissed him.

At that moment, I had just a flash of what my work could be like if it wasn't... well, the way it always is.

An estimate is just that - an estimate. Sometimes things take longer when you get into the detail. Sometimes you don't think of everything. Twenty-year old bespoke IT systems are rambling, complicated, illogical, riddled with holes and inconsistencies. So we estimate as best we can, we build a bit of contigency, but it's a guideline, not an excuse to carve a deadline in stone and hold everyone to it.

I basked in the glory of this man's statement for some time and contemplated its simplicity, its beauty. Only to be brought back down to earth by my manager.

"B said it's okay if we don't deliver bang on the date we pencilled in - he just wants the system to be right"

"Yeah, but we've delivered a few projects late this year, I don't want another one to explain to J (the director). So I'd appreciate if you'd pull this one in on time"

A glimmer of hope, eclipsed by the dark shadow of reality.

Delusion and collusion

2010-03-26T09:46:00.005+00:00

I had thought that I would never find a colleague as infuriating as this one. Apparently, I was quite wrong.

For the past few months, I have been sitting opposite a man who seems, on the surface, to be an interesting, intelligent and laid back sort of fellow. We all thought so. "Yeah, he's a nice, guy, D". Yeah. And I would stand by that now to some extent - he is interesting, intelligent and laid back.

But as an added "bonus", he has the most extraordinary superiority complex I have ever encountered. The way he talks about himself, one would imagine that he has reached the pinnacle of achievement in his life. Let's look at the facts, shall we? He is a test analyst for an insurance company. He lives alone and by his own admission, has no friends. Truly enviable, no?

He will argue with anything and everything, particularly things which really aren't worth arguing about. If you state a fact to him, his reply will always start with "But surely...". His opinions revolve around what he has gleaned from the One Show, Wikipedia or extrapolated from his own, limited experience of life. Once he has the bit in his mouth on a particular topic, he will not let go, even if the whole office provides evidence to disprove his ill thought out theory.

He has a particular bee in his bonnet about the fact that he didn't go to university, concluding that he is somehow better than those who did. Now, I couldn't give a toss if someone's been to university or not, and there are countless examples of people who do have a degree who are complete cretins and have made a mess of their life. I am very far from being a shining example of graduate success. But what cannot be denied is that if you have a degree, there are certain doors open to you which would not be open to you otherwise. Perhaps they are doors which have no interest to you, perhaps they are doors that you lack the confidence to open, but they are doors nonetheless. This is fact.

Instead of going to university, he will claim, he travelled. He worked in America, he worked in Dubai, he had valuable experiences which have made him who he is today. Well done, fair play to him. But going to university does not prevent someone from travelling and/or working abroad (for example) - in my case, it was part of my degree to do so. Many students take a year off before or after university to do so. Many graduates take a sabbatical part way through a degree to have such experiences. His argument does not hold water. I do not criticise anyone for not having a degree. Yet he will criticise and claim to be superior to those who do.

A particular example he has cited more than once is one of his teachers at school telling him he would never make anything of his life. "But look at me now, and look at him. I wonder how much he's earning..." he will spout, smugly.

I have a number of problems with this. I am looking at you now. You are a test analyst for an insurance company. He is a teacher. I know which profession I have more respect for. As for "how much he's earning", well I would consider that to be utterly irrelevant, but for the record, it's *probably* still more than you.

I almost look forward to going back to my old desk, behind him. Almost.

Luckily, I have an ally. A is, I think, my secret sister. We are both tall, loud, North Londoners who tell it like it is and won't suffer fools gladly. We are both mimics, we both sing if prompted by a phrase that happens to be in a song, we both laugh, we both overreact. Those who don't know us think we can be aggressive or intimidating. Those who do, know that despite our appearance we actually lack confidence and self-esteem.

The other day, A said something to D that made me realise that she felt the same way about him as I do. A hasty email followed by a satisfyingly cathartic bitching session.

Always good to know one is not alone.

Gift

2009-12-09T07:11:00.003+00:00

What buying a present should be about:

At any time of year:

Seeing something you know someone would love.
Buying it there and then.
Giving it to them when you next see them.
"I saw this and thought of you".

Making something.
Something tailored to a friend, a lover, a family member.
Something you've given up your time to make.
Something utterly unique.

What buying a present should not be about:

December. Shops really busy. Where's my list? What was it he wanted? Was it Guitar Hero or Band Hero? I'm not even bothering going in *that* shop. Where's my list? Argh! Stress! What was it she wanted? Eternity or Escape? Why can't everyone just fuck off? Need a cup of tea. Where's my list? What was it they wanted? Hannah Montana or High School musical? Stop pushing me! Need a drink. Wrapping paper, yes. Queues! Argh! Bus home. Squashed. Oh no! Tags! Sellotape! My sanity! My patience!

...

The older I get, the more pointless it all seems.

Not being at work, relaxing with the ones I love, being warm, being well. That's what I want for Christmas.

What do you want?

La Belle époque

2009-11-22T11:37:00.002+00:00

It can't have escaped the notice of many "old school" bloggers that Belle de jour has finally been unmasked.

I remember when I first became aware of Belle. I remember, because I blogged about it in the days when I was still finding my own blogging voice, when my posts were distinctly more superficial, impulsive and snippety. I remember the controversy, particularly when she won a blogging award after only a couple of months. I remember the various theories - most notably, that "she" was a man. Furthermore, a journalist. No female, amateur writer could write about sex like that, apparently.

What was different about Belle from my perspective was that she had no comment thread. I had come to blogging at a time (known by some as "the second wave") when comments had become the norm. It seemed unthinkable that a new blog wouldn't have them. What we now know is that Belle had been an early adopter of blogging under a couple of different pseudonyms, therefore not having comments on her latest offering was probably normal for her. But not for the bloggers who saw themselves as her "contemporaries". Me being one of them. It all seemed incredibly aloof. "This is what I have to say. You may not respond, you must simply read and admire" is how I interpreted it. And they did, in droves.

Another feature which set her apart was the "monomania". The blog was about her experiences as a call girl, but not about her as a (as it turned out) PhD student, who had chosen prostitution as a means to pay for her studies. As a woman in a serious relationship. As a woman with American heritage. We never got to "know" her as a whole person, she was an enigma. Whereas I and many other bloggers at the time were open books, blurting out our feelings and failings to anyone who would listen.

She seemed supremely confident in her looks, her abilities, her intelligence, her writing. With good reason, as it turned out. Although this meant that I could never relate to her as I related to so many of the other blogs I was reading at the time. I relate best to humility, honesty, inadequacy.

Hers was probably the first blog that made me feel utterly inadequate about my life, my writing, my everything, but this did not stop me from returning to that url, week after week. When I think about how my own writing has evolved, from the early, chatty posts I used to publish, to the more thought-out, philosophical offerings of more recent times, I suppose I can't deny that I have been influenced, almost despite myself. I was a secret, reluctant admirer, inspired and intimidated in equal measure.

I once sent an email to Belle. She used French date stamps on her posts, and I noticed that the day and month names began with capital letters. If she wanted to be authentic, I pointed out, these should begin with lowercase letters. I have no idea if she read my message, but when I saw her first book in Waterstones, I noticed that lowercase was being used and smiled.

She was the first "blog to book" that I was aware of, and probably heralded the way for many others. I believe that blogging became more competitive and corporate after this - people clamoured for awards and book deals. Not Belle's fault, clearly, but a change was apparent to those of us who'd been blogging "before Belle". Many of my blogging strops have been reactions to these changes, but my instinct to write stuff (however crap) has usually tipped the balance.

So Belle (Brooke) is indeed a woman. A respected scientist. I am not surprised. Her writing betrayed her as a supremely intelligent person, whose intellect extended well beyond the somewhat limited (however specialised) demands of the escort work she wrote about in such detail.

Go well, Brooke.

Delving

2009-10-29T20:18:00.002+00:00

By the time I was nineteen years old, I'd lost all of my grandparents. I never knew my paternal grandfather, and can barely remember my mother's father either, who died when I was just four, a year after my own father had died.

I saw my two grandmothers regularly: one lived in West London in a 1930s block of flats, the other a stone's throw from the sea, near Bognor Regis in Sussex. Both had many stories to tell, but like most youngsters, I didn't think to really listen.

I lost my mother, my only remaining parent, when I was just twenty-seven. As I moved into my thirties, a time when I began to indulge in much philosophical introspection (the fact that I started blogging at thirty-one is no coincidence) I began to ponder my own history and wonder where I'd come from, but unfortunately had no-one to ask.

In the past few months, I have been inspired by re-runs on satellite channels of this, and with the help of the wealth of resources now available on the Internet (for a nominal fee and in some cases, free), I've been delving around in censuses and putting together my own family tree. Luckily, my grandparents were all old enough to appear on the 1911 census as children, so I was able to find out their parents' names, their siblings, where they lived, and the occupation of the father.

In my family, there have been booksellers, shopkeepers, wood labourers, police constables, mercantile clerks and station masters.

They have lived in Clerkenwell, Camberwell, Bethnal Green, Hoxton (before it was trendy), Stepney, Kent, Surrey, Hampshire, Devon, and Sussex. With the wonder of the Interwebs (most notably, Google Street View for the London addresses), I have even managed to glimpse some of the houses my ancestors lived in - where they have not been replaced by 1950s blocks of flats.

There are numerous Eleanors, Claras, Ediths, Thomases and Georges. One of my great, great grandfathers had a wife called Amelia, a daughter called Amelia and a servant called, yes you've guessed it, Amelia. Another had two sons called John, both alive on the same census.

One of my great grandfathers was one of nine siblings, and grew up just a few miles from where I now live. My paternal grandfather grew up in Sidcup and went to school in Chislehurst - a stone's throw from where I lived briefly with Big, back in 2004. His mother was born in Mottingham - one stop prior to where I used to get off the train from the city during those dark (but mercifully short) days of commuting.

It is all quite, quite fascinating.

Provisions

2009-08-29T20:29:00.004+01:00

Our garden has provided us with:

Gooseberries
Blackcurrants
Redcurrants
Blueberries
Courgettes
Tomatoes
Potatoes
Lettuces
Butternut squash
Apples
Raspberries
Strawberries

The cat has attempted to provide us with:

moths
butterflies
worms
birds
slugs (which attached themselves to her fluffy haunches)
a lack of sleep, due to night time meanderings on the bed
surly, nonchalant behaviour
general ungratefulness
rare moments of utter adoration
seemingly endless amusement

Work has provided me with:

a salary
disillusionment
hatred
despair
exhaustion
cynicism
an overwhelming urge to run for the hills

My sister has provided me with:

a small, perfectly formed niece (to add to my collection)

The municipal recycling centre (or "dump" as it used to be known) has provided us with:

Two filing cabinets
A blind, which miraculously fits the bathroom window as if it were made to measure
Two chrome effect radiator drying racks
A marble lazy susan (used mostly as a Scrabble turntable)
A bird bath
Two large pieces of fabulous "retro" fabric
Some pint glasses

That about covers it, for now.

Orthographic despair

2009-08-03T22:19:00.004+01:00

A couple of roads I pass fairly regularly seem to be having an identity crisis since the council has decided to renew the signs so that they now boast the qualifier "City of Southampton". As if we didn't know.

At one end of one of the roads in question, the sign reads "LANDGUARD ROAD" (the name by which I've always known the road). At the other end, it reads "LANGUARD ROAD". Similarly, the next road up is "HOWARD ROAD" at one end, and "HOWARDS ROAD" at the other.

Where one road has lost a "D" at one end, the other has gained a spurious "S" at the other.

The confusion offered up by the city council has unfortunately spread, like swine flu, to a nearby bus stop. One route displayed on the timetable shows the stop as "Landguard Road", another route shows "Languard Road". On the same sign. On the same piece of paper. By the same bus operator.

To top it all off, I am helpfully advised by a temporary, yellow diversion sign that I should find an alternative route to the "city center".

Where will it end, that's what I ask myself.

Knowing

2009-05-31T19:30:00.005+01:00

Wandering through town, trying to find something to wear for the wedding of the year. Something which doesn't make me want to cry should I happen to catch my reflection unawares.

Dresses are tricky on me. Waists are too high, skirts flare out just at the point where it's most unflattering, hems are too short. After many weekends of traipsing dejectedly in search of the non-existent "dress-that-looks-good-on-me", I have finally decreed that I shall wear trousers to this god-forsaken wedding. I very rarely wear anything untrouserlike, so why should I be different at a wedding? And let's face it, my legs are best just left lurking inside a trusty trouser leg rather than parading around on public display.

So, trousers it is, and of those I have many - but I'll need a nice top.

As I scour the same shops as before, this time looking for tops, not dresses, I decide to take a break for a browse around the bookshop. I very rarely buy new books, my brain quickly becoming bewildered by "l'embarras du choix" offered up by the high street bookstores. I prefer to get my books from charity shops, secure in the knowledge that I will have much less choice, a lower ticket price and the smugness of reuse. But on the odd occasion, I'll pop in to see what catches my eye.

And there, on the shelf, adjacent to the entrance, is something which immediately piques my interest.

I grasp it and read the blurb inside the cover:

... de Botton skillfully raises the big questions we all tend to ask of our work. What should I do with my life? How can I combine earning money with attaining fulfilment?...

I smirk. It is almost as if this book were written just for me. I make a mental note to buy it when it comes out in paperback.

In the meantime, I continue my quest for a wedding outfit, finally finding a blue silk tunic and miraculously matching blue shoes. I am interrupted by a text message from a friend:

Can I have your postal address? I have a present. W x

I duly provide the information, and continue on my way.

Three days later

I receive a jiffy bag.

I open the jiffy bag.

Inside the jiffy bag is this:

Inside the book is this:

*

I love my friends.

* inscription reads: "may the pleasures outweigh the sorrows"

Irritation

2009-05-23T20:26:00.002+01:00

Context: I am talking to my colleague. He is 27 years old, born and bred in the Midlands and university educated

Him: "Where's Torquay?"
Me: "Devon"

[pause]

Him: "Where's Devon?"
Me: [silent incredulity]

Him:"I can't believe it, they didn't pay me when I had one day off sick last month!"

Me:"Yeah, I had that too. That's because you're still in your six month probation period. It's all in your contract - the company won't pay you sick pay in your first six months. They would have told you that on your first day too. Of course, after a certain number of days, you'd get statutory sick pay"

Him: "That's not fair, I can't help being ill!"

Me: "That's not the point - you're in your probationary period - it's like having a temporary contract. It's fairly standard practice in a company like this."

Him: "Well, I've never had that before. I lost a day's pay!"

Me: "Hmmm, one day out of a month's salary - it's not exactly going to leave you on the breadline. To put your experience in a bit of perspective, a couple of years ago I was seriously ill and had 10 weeks on statutory sick pay, because I was in my probationary period. That was pretty hard financially"

[pause]

Him: "At least you got paid. I didn't get anything!"
Me: [silent incredulity]

Me: [noticing a packet of paracetamol on his desk] "Are you okay? You got a headache?"
Him: "Oh, I had flu earlier today. It's gone now..."
Me: [silent incredulity]

I've always been a pretty mild-mannered, laid-back person at work. I am lucky enough to work with bright, highly intelligent people, who mostly share my cynicism and frustration at the corporate world and the games we play within it, but who get on with it, because someone is paying them a decent salary to do so.

My newest colleague, however, is trying my patience to the extreme. Countless mind-numbingly stupid pronouncements like the ones cited above, married with fidgety behaviour, a naivety I have never experienced in someone of his age and background, mood swings hitherto unknown in the male of the species, erratic and melodramatic behaviour (he was once found sitting down in the lift), body language reminiscent of a sulky teenager, appalling standards of work (the fact that a program compiles does not mean that you have "finished" it!), an astonishing lack of numeracy (for a computer science graduate), and a constant need for reassurance (very hard to give, under the circumstances) makes him by far the most high-maintenance programmer I have ever had to work with.

And it's not just me who feels this way - most of our lunchtime conversations will involve an account of his latest demented outburst. At least he provides us with entertainment.

Whilst I usually settle for passive-aggression in the workplace, venting my frustrations once I'm away from those concerned, with this moronic excuse for a colleague, I have been driven to snap at him on a number of occasions. Big has now banned me from talking about him at home, because he is too angry on my behalf and powerless to take any action.

Perhaps the most irritating fact is that his probation period has now been and gone. An opportunity missed. And so, for the foreseeable, I must sit behind this idiot, clenching myself in silent incredulity and resisting the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

I hate how he makes me feel.

Still here

2009-03-28T21:01:00.005+00:00

Yes. Still around.

Still a little too round, actually, despite all my best efforts to whittle away the curves with a combination of running, swimming, skipping, and carrying out strange-looking manoeuvres on a so-called lateral stepper (one of my impulse buys, used three or four times in, well, a good couple of months). Nothing, it seems, will take me back to how I was "before WG". But I will not stop trying. My running pal and I, we call ourselves the "special needs" runners. Me, with my drug-induced anaemia, making it much more of a struggle than it used to be, she with her epilepsy, whose seizures can leave her out of action for weeks at a time if they lead to injury. Together, we stumble round Southampton common slowly but surely. Together, we stick our fingers up at our stupid illnesses and, albeit somewhat unathletically, just get on with it.

In work news, following on from this, I proved myself to be far too good at my job and was promoted after six months in the role. When I say promoted, I mean that my manager "strongly encouraged me" to apply for a senior role which had become vacant. Slightly bewildered, I re-did the same aptitude tests that I'd done six months previously and was interviewed by the same interviewers who had interviewed me six months previously. (Is no-one simply promoted any more?)

As a result of my new-found seniority, I have found myself being sucked into the mindset of "caring about work", which always puts me in a curious position. On one hand, I know that my job is essentially pointless in the grand scheme of things. On the other, I am a girly swot, eager to please and desperate to do a good job. And so I excel in the corporate workplace, having senior users fighting over who gets to use me on their ever-so-important projects. And I get paid a little more, which always helps. While inside, I just wonder what it's all for.

The cat continues to delight us. Not a day goes by when we don't laugh at her deranged antics. Now that she spends time outdoors, she has started to bring us the inevitable "presents". So far, a butterfly, an enormous moth and a number of worms have been presented to us, patted about a bit, generally tortured or sometimes eaten. She oscillates between utter aloofness and absolute adoration, depending on whether or not the recipient of her attention (or lack thereof) is holding in their hand one of these (or might do so in the near future).

Her latest obsession is the kitchen sink, which she will peer at, fascinated, for hours on end, listening, eyes wide, to the gurgling of the waste and lapping up any stray droplets of water. Like most cats, she refuses to drink from her dedicated bowl, preferring to take her water in virtually any other context.

My hair is shoulder-length and schizophrenic - curly at the back, barely wavy at the front, so I am back on the straighteners again in a desperate attempt to give it some uniformity. Like my body, I fear I will never have the pre-WG hair back.

And despite that background malaise, that continuing status anxiety, life is good. Big is here. My friends are here. We are healthy and happy. Thank you for asking.

A journey

2009-01-27T21:02:00.007+00:00

The precocious boy is talking loudly (and precociously) to his father (?) in the seat behind me. I manage to zone most of it out and concentrate on my book, but am distracted when I hear him suggesting to his father that they "do some French". This should be interesting. Having two seats to myself, I shuffle forwards so that my ear is conveniently located between the two seats, maximising my eavesdropping opportunity.

Most of the French exercises they do are correct to my trained ear (bar a few dodgy pronunciations), but I notice the father fluffing the position of the negative when constructing a sentence with a reflexive verb in the perfect tense.

Later, as we approach Clapham Junction, I move towards the front of the train. Time is tight - there is a slim hope that I will make my connection at King's Cross, but only if I minimise the amount of platform I have to walk along once I get to Waterloo.

I choose my exit point, and am joined in the "vestibule" by a woman. She presses the "open" button on the toilet beside us, and the door glides across to reveal a man having a wee. We both avert our eyes and stifle a snigger. The man, now re-buttoned, emerges and checks the door. Somewhat bewildered, he directs his explanation to us: "It just came open...". My conspirator and I shrug innocently, and he makes his exit.

I smile. "He must have forgotten to press the "Lock" button," I suggest, to salve her conscience. We share our opinions of new-fangled toilet door devices, agreeing that a mechanical lock is infinitely preferable to the possibility of a door sliding open whilst one is "otherwise engaged".

I ask her if she knows what's happening with the tube at Waterloo. I had a feeling there was some restriction about which exits were usable, but couldn't remember the details. She looks at me blankly. "I haven't been up here for years, I've no idea!". I ask her which way she's going. "St Pancras. I'm visiting my grandmother in Bedfordshire. I've no idea how to get there, though..." Since I'm going to King's Cross and know exactly which way to go, I tell her to follow me.

I guide her down the escalators through the throng of the Friday evening rush hour (she stands on the left - I hastily usher her over to the right) . "Head for the Bakerloo line - it's an easy change at Oxford Circus...". Old habits die hard.

We make our way onto the platform, and I stomp purposefully to the opposite end, away from the entrance, where there are fewer people. Old habits die hard.

The Bakerloo line is fairly empty, but we're in for a treat on the Victoria line at Oxford Circus. I've barely time to go all nostalgic at the destination of our train ("Walthamstow, my Walthamstow!") before we are crammed together into an altogether less airy vestibule than that offered by South West Trains. I have just enough space to peer down at my watch, concerned.

"Do you think you'll make the train?" she asks, knowing how little time I have. "Nah..." She, on the other hand, will arrive with time to spare.

As we leave the tube and head for the mainline, it's 17:43. My train leaves King's Cross at 17:45. Once we've negotiated the barriers and gone our separate ways, I emerge onto the concourse, looking hopefully at the departure board. First train on the board: 17:50 to Peterborough.

My train has departed... but, as I discover when checking my phone and finding several missed calls from when I was deep underground, the friend I'm meeting there has not. We get some supplies from M&S Simply Food and pile onto the 18:15 instead. Our weekend has begun.

The same. Only different.

2009-01-27T20:24:00.004+00:00

2006:

2009:

Apparently, I now have curly hair. Who knew?

2009-01-14T21:50:00.002+00:00

I stuck a note on the printer.

I know what you’re thinking, but it wasn’t one of those passive-aggressive notes "politely" informing the reader to cease and desist from whatever potential minor contravention was envisaged.

It was a helpful note.

I sit opposite the printer. I see the comings and goings of the users of the printer. I hear the bleeps and see the lights of the printer when the printer is unhappy. I see the frustrated user grappling with the drawers of the printer, tutting with exasperation when their document fails to emerge from the jaws of the printer.

Having worked as a secretary on several occasions in my murky past, I have built up a good rapport with printers. I know how to touch them, how to coax them, how to load them up and press their buttons. Where others slam the doors and jab angrily at the control panel, I calmly remove the paper jams, replace the cartridges and summon the friendly whirr of a happy printer with my gentle machinations.

So, sitting as I do opposite the printer, I often step in to help when I hear the bleeps that signal frayed tempers and concertina’d documents. Even though I rarely print anything out - existing in a largely paperless world, apart from my manuscript book where I scribble my ideas in pencil. This generally involve words with arrows pointing at other words, weird doodles and half-arsed to-do lists (the other day, I wrote "Need to " but then obviously became distracted and never found out what I "needed to" do...).

I would notice the hard-copy fanatics replenishing the paper. This would involve marching off to the opposite end of the office, bringing back one lonely packet of paper, putting half the packet in the printer, and leaving the remainder on top of the cupboard opposite the printer. The cupboard which overlooks my desk. A few hours later, this scene would repeat itself, just with a different user (whoever happened to approach the printer at its moment of need).

Knowing of the director’s penchant for a tidy office (woe betide anyone who leaves a coat on the back of a chair, let alone a half empty packet of paper on a cupboard), I took it upon myself to implement a system. Being a system implementer by trade, I felt qualified to do so. I went to the other end of the office, and picked up several packets of paper – as many as I could carry without contravening Health and Safety regulations. I piled these packets of paper quite neatly, in the (mostly empty) cupboard opposite the printer.

And then I stuck a note on the printer. Large, Arial font, nice and clear, neatly stuck on with backward-looped sellotape.

There should be paper in the cupboard behind you.
If not, you’ll have to take a walk...

Helpful, informative – and a little bit cheeky. Appropriate, I thought, for an IT department.

For several days, I was able to witness the beautiful efficacy of my system. The user would approach the printer, realise it had run out of paper and then turn toward me in a neat pirouette, open the cupboard and find a ready supply of paper. The supply of paper in the cupboard was maintained. My note was working.

Then one day, inexplicably, the note was gone. My colleagues and I speculated at some length on its disappearance, wondering whether a bin audit might reveal the culprit. But then Christmas came, and all was forgotten.

I noted, with some satisfaction, that the memory of my note lived on, as I witnessed further printer users turning instinctively to the cupboard for the paper supply. Evidently, others’ memories were not so efficient, as the departmental email today confirmed:

Please note that paper is kept in the cupboard opposite the printers. Please do not leave half-empty packets of paper on the cupboard tops.

There would have been no need for the email if they'd just kept my note...

(hello!)

In which I polish my medal

2008-07-31T21:41:00.005+01:00

"Did I tell you about the two further occurrences?" he asks me. He tends to operate in one of two modes, enigmatic or smarmy and slightly inappropriate. Today, he has chosen enigmatic.

Once again, my manager has chosen to start a conversation in the middle, rather than at the more traditional beginning. Call me old fash.

"Um, occurrences of what?" I enquire, brows raised in anticipation.

"Of people giving me good feedback about you"

"Ah!" I become slightly embarrassed. "Really? Who was it this time?"

"I, from [other department]. And E, from [my team]. They both said how impressed they were with the work you've done with them."

"Oh... well thanks for letting me know!"

These were to add to my growing collection of plaudits: the original one from N, the large bag of Minstrels from M (I like that sort), the verbal thanks from T and the most recent thank you email from A which was sent to my manager and forwarded to me. Plus, one of my functional design documents was heralded as an example to a new member of staff of how a functional design document should be.

I may have moaned about working at [insert original company name], but it seems that they taught me my trade very well.

And so it turns out that I might be a little bit great.
(At my job, that is. Wouldn't want to get over-excited...)

Simpleton

2008-07-17T18:10:00.002+01:00

I admire it from the window.

"Look, Big, just look at it!"

With the sun beating down and a gentle breeze, it really is in its element. I smile a slightly smug smile, proud of my handiwork.

It had taken me a while to get around to it, I admit. I am not keen on drilling holes in masonry – the noise is unbearable and having had mishaps in the past, I tend to procrastinate when I know that future drilling is required. But that weekend, I had finally climbed the ladder, drill in hand, hammer action engaged, and finished the job.

At our last house, we’d had a free-standing model – no drilling required, but the results are not so satisfactory. The clustering makes the process take longer, and both of us being tall, there is always the risk of inadvertently clubbing oneself with the contraption which, like many domestic items of its kind, is built for those of a more average height. Such dangers with the new one are rare and, with its easily-stowed-away-when-not-in-use design, not of major concern.

Once, whilst enjoying a pub lunch with friends, a man whom we’d assumed to be the resident nutter approached us somewhat angrily, claiming with some conviction: "The evil is in the complexity!" and throwing what looked like a tarot card onto our table. Whilst at the time we’d laughed it off, I still remember that phrase and can’t help thinking he might have been onto something.

Simplicity. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Simplicity is what I strive for.

Which is why, when I look out of the back door at my freshly washed clothes and bed linen, pegged to our new, retractable washing line which I'd just affixed to the exterior wall, propped up with the clothes prop, blowing in the wind, basking in the sun, I feel a little glow.

The glow of simplicity.

Hitch

2008-07-11T19:00:00.004+01:00

The envelope was hand-delivered over the weekend. As I came downstairs, Big was reading it and he handed it over wordlessly.

Damn. We thought we'd got away with it...

Not having been in Southampton at the appropriate time, and not being particularly close to them, we hadn't been included originally and neither had we expected to be. Everyone else had assumed, however, that we had - being part of the same social circle. Kept mentioning it and we kept having to tell them that no, were weren't part of it. But we were okay with it - secretly, rather pleased because it all seemed like a bit of a chore.

Maybe someone thought they were doing us a favour, and mentioned it to them. Or maybe, through seeing us out and about, they themselves suddenly felt guilty about it. Took "pity" on us when there was no need.

Either way, there we were with the envelope and we weren't sure what to do.

"Why don't we go to Manchester that weekend instead? That would give us an excuse"

I screwed up my nose. "K is coming down on Friday night - I said I'd go out for dinner with her, haven't seen her for ages. I'd rather go to Manchester over a long weekend - it's too far to go on Saturday and come back on Sunday...". He rolled his eyes.

And so we have been invited (at the last minute - as an afterthought? After someone else dropped out?) to yet another wedding. It's that time in our life when everyone around us is planning the flowers, booking the venue and choosing the dress. Or moaning about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or wittering endlessly about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or becoming stressed about planning the flowers, booking the venue or choosing the dress. Or failing to believe the cost of the flowers, the venue or the dress.

I must admit that marriage was "considered" very early on in my relationship with Big. When I say "considered", I mean that he proposed and I accepted. True. And apart from Big and me, no-one else knows this. You are indeed privileged, gentle reader.

However, the more weddings we went to (and being in our mid-thirties, there are plenty going on), the more we realised that we just didn't want it for ourselves. Certainly not in the form we'd experienced and perhaps not in any form at all. The idea of being the centre of attention for a day fills me with horror. The idea of having friends and family spend a fortune on travel, outfits and accommodation just for the "pleasure" of watching me prance around in a pretty frock for a few hours is just bizarre. And as for the idea of expecting a gift, vouchers or whatever alternative schemes people come up with, just because we've decided to sign a piece of paper, is weird beyond belief.

And so we carry on, me being me, him being him, fine on our own, but better together.

For all these reasons and more, we were perfectly okay with not going to this wedding.

And then we got invited.

There's probably still time to hastily arrange a "prior" engagement...

(Am I evil?)

Oh dear

2008-07-01T18:17:00.002+01:00

It's hard to know where to start with this one.

Suffice it to say, if you're going to give your sandwich shop a foreign name, do check the spelling, grammar and capitalisation with someone who knows the language before you go to the signwriters.

A rude awakening

2008-06-25T18:31:00.003+01:00

Confusion reigns, as is often the case in my dreams. Anxiety too. The details vary, but the sense of malaise is always the same. I could be missing a bus, a train, a plane. I might have lost my purse, my bag, my marbles. My legs, arms or hands don't seem to work, or work so sluggishly as to be at best frustrating, at worst, useless. Whatever I'm trying to do in my dreams - and it's usually vitally important - is being hampered by bad luck, physical shortcomings or bizarre logistical problems. I call these my anxiety dreams.

It is during one such mind muddle that I am suddenly aware of the duvet being ripped off me, my real (not dream) body exposed to the cool morning air in a most unexpected fashion. I manage a whimper, the pathetic-ness of which surprises even me. I furrow my brow and whine at the culprit beside me:

"You pulled the duvet off me!"

His look is one of utter bewilderment. As usual, when waking, he has little idea of what he's doing.

"S-sorry, I thought I was... I thought I was pulling it off myself..." he tails off, aware of how absurd his explanation is. He bundles me up again in the duvet and gathers my embundled self into his arms.

"I'm sorry, love" and he makes his exit. It must be time to get up.

I settle back down for a snooze, but before I have a chance to rest my head on the pillow, I am aware of the bedroom door creaking open, the padding of soft feet on the wooden floorboards and a tiny squeak. The cat, released from her downstairs incarceration, is ready for her morning cuddle.

Any plans I may have had for a snooze are now obliterated, as she jumps lightly and nimbly onto the bed and starts frantically kneading my chest (which I have taken care to cover with the duvet) and tickling my already pollen-ridden nose with her fluffy face. After a few minutes of sitting down, lying down, gazing adoringly, standing up, kneading and turning round (repeat, ad nauseam), she leaps over to the opposite corner of the bed, where she looks expectantly from me to the closed window blind.

Her work is done. I am now truly, indisputably awake. I drag my reluctant self from my horizontal position, grab my dressing gown and raise the blind just high enough for her to sit on the windowsill and survey her domain.

I shuffle sulkily downstairs and make a cup of tea. My day, like it or not, has begun.

On the buses

2008-06-13T21:13:00.004+01:00

I walk to the bus stop.

At the end of my road, the man with clippity-cloppity shoes and the close-fitting, slightly shiny suit approaches from the left, just as he did the day before. I am just ahead of him as I turn right towards the station, but am aware of his noisy footfalls just behind me - too close for comfort. Inevitably, I will cross the road to allow him to walk at his, slightly faster, pace.

As I turn left, up the hill, I note that he has now forged ahead. He has an air of confidence about him as he strides along, head held high. I suspect he is a lawyer.

At the top of the hill, I cross the busy junction and enter the park, near the modern statue. From this point on, I can see the road ahead running perpendicular to my trajectory. I have several minutes to contemplate the potential buses I could miss as they come from right to left in my field of vision - still a little too far away to run for. I curse my perfect eyesight, which allows me to notice such distant occurrences.

I approach the war memorial and the gaggle of schoolgirls who loiter there, smoking, chatting, flirting with the boys. The other day, as I walked past, I heard one saying: "I like your top." I'd assumed she was talking to her friend, but turned around to find that she was looking at me. "I like your top," she says again. Her tone of voice has the natural surliness of a teenager, and I'm not sure whether to take her comment at face value. I give her the benefit of the doubt. "Thanks," I smile, and continue on my way.

The long-haired guy is there, at the bus stop, as usual, with his lanky ponytail and laptop bag. Bound to work in IT. Bound to be a heavy metal fan. (I feel qualified to judge on both counts, since I am in the former category and I live with the latter). His attempt at business casual extends to substituting shabby, black trousers for his no-doubt habitual jeans.

The tall guy loiters anxiously, never stopping to sit on the insubstantial and rather uncomfortable looking bench within the shelter. Sometimes, I join him in the shade - the bus shelter being in direct sunlight, uncomfortable on warm mornings.

On the bus now, I notice the short, smiling, balding man, whose trousers are too short. An underwriter, perhaps. Or an actuary. He gets on half-way up the road, by the common. I hear him speaking to a friend - his car is out of action, which is why he's taking the bus. He grins happily for the entire journey. The novelty of taking the bus has not yet worn off.

Already on the bus is the young guy with red-dyed hair and quirky dress sense, who works at the same place as me. Customer services call centre. And he is there again, at the bus stop for the journey home. Another bus stop you can see for several tantalising minutes as you approach it via the large expanse of the supermarket car park. The long-haired, ponytail man is also there, as is the Louis Theroux lookalike whom I sometimes see.

The short, smiling, balding man just makes it onto the bus in time and soon we are heading back into town again. The huge, muscular, unlikely looking jogger is in his usual place, his black skin glistening with sweat, clutching two water bottles which look frosted, as if they'd been put in the freezer beforehand.

As we arrive back in the City Centre, I consider getting another bus home, but my ticket only allows me to take the blue buses. Countless white buses are going in my direction, but the blues are fewer and further between and yes, I can just see the other bus stop - a blue one has just pulled away.

I walk. I need the exercise.

I arrive home to Big, and the cat who now belongs to us. The cat inevitably does something amusing, and I smile and have a cup of tea.

2008-05-30T18:16:00.002+01:00

Stuff.

Like working (impressing), running (progressing), swimming (buoying), socialising (enjoying), sleeping (snoring), Facebooking (boring), laughing (guffawing) and living, for heaven's sake, living.

And NOT blogging.

Ah well.

A year of bad hair days

2008-05-21T22:42:00.004+01:00