Winter approacheth

Most mornings I wake up, grumble and make coffee.

I take my little concoction of hypertension medication and wash it down with coffee (irony).

Then I stagger with said mug of coffee to the PC to check my email and stuff.

Today I've had to put the light on although I logged on just before 9am it was still too gloomy in the garrett to use the keyboard without it.

A sure sign that the year is waning.

Winter approacheth

Most mornings I wake up, grumble and make coffee.

I take my little concoction of hypertension medication and wash it down with coffee (irony).

Then I stagger with said mug of coffee to the PC to check my email and stuff.

Today I've had to put the light on although I logged on just before 9am it was still too gloomy in the garrett to use the keyboard without it.

A sure sign that the year is waning.

The Idler

Idispensible reading for the cultured man-about-town in the hurly-burly world of the twenty-first century.

The Idler.

Of the many memorable things therin, read the crap jobs section. My personal favourite is cut-and-pasted here:

PETROL POMP

Whilst completing a Master's degree at Lancaster University (see crap towns) the year before last, I was simultaneously engaged in tackling the world of work. Having applied for countless tedious jobs, I ended up being taken on by a 24 hour petrol station, doing Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday nights from 11 till 7 in the morning.

Working at a petrol station is a deeply unsatisfying endeavour. When someone picks up a pump a beeper goes off and you press a button. That's it. Crap.

Working nights at a petrol station is a vision of hell.

At night you're locked in. There's no escape. Made to feel like a terminally bored zoo exhibit, you share your evening with the hum of fluorescent lights, the smell of petrol and the customers.

Dear God, the customers.

After 11 o'clock nobody wants petrol except taxi drivers. After 11 o'clock the fun starts. You probably recognise the following scenario. You've probably been in it. You've probably been the person who wants to know what sandwiches I've got. I don't have any fucking sandwiches but nonetheless I'll go check what's in the shop. After making my way round the counter and shouting out all fourteen varieties of chicken sandwich, you have probably replied that you no longer require a sandwich and would rather have some AA batteries instead.

Bastards.

I hated you. Not as much as the customers who threatened to come and twat me when the doors were opened, but I still hated you. Even hairy, hairy Jesus would have lost his patience had he been forced to hunt down snack foods and dairy products all through the night.

Of course there was more to the job. I had to contend with dodgy scallies trying out their new stolen credit cards, doing runners after filling up, and flinging bottles and bags of coal around the forecourt. There were also the nightly thrills of the two hour stock-take and floor mopping.

After a few months of enduring this tedium I got fired for inaction‚. Some pissed-up knuckle-scraper pulled the cover off one of the pumps, leaving bits of it all over the forecourt and obviously rendering it inactive. Apparently, I should have reported this incident to the police. I didn't though and thankfully they alleviated me of my duties.

That was a crap job alright.

Marvellous.

The Idler

Idispensible reading for the cultured man-about-town in the hurly-burly world of the twenty-first century.

The Idler.

Of the many memorable things therin, read the crap jobs section. My personal favourite is cut-and-pasted here:

PETROL POMP

Whilst completing a Master's degree at Lancaster University (see crap towns) the year before last, I was simultaneously engaged in tackling the world of work. Having applied for countless tedious jobs, I ended up being taken on by a 24 hour petrol station, doing Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday nights from 11 till 7 in the morning.

Working at a petrol station is a deeply unsatisfying endeavour. When someone picks up a pump a beeper goes off and you press a button. That's it. Crap.

Working nights at a petrol station is a vision of hell.

At night you're locked in. There's no escape. Made to feel like a terminally bored zoo exhibit, you share your evening with the hum of fluorescent lights, the smell of petrol and the customers.

Dear God, the customers.

After 11 o'clock nobody wants petrol except taxi drivers. After 11 o'clock the fun starts. You probably recognise the following scenario. You've probably been in it. You've probably been the person who wants to know what sandwiches I've got. I don't have any fucking sandwiches but nonetheless I'll go check what's in the shop. After making my way round the counter and shouting out all fourteen varieties of chicken sandwich, you have probably replied that you no longer require a sandwich and would rather have some AA batteries instead.

Bastards.

I hated you. Not as much as the customers who threatened to come and twat me when the doors were opened, but I still hated you. Even hairy, hairy Jesus would have lost his patience had he been forced to hunt down snack foods and dairy products all through the night.

Of course there was more to the job. I had to contend with dodgy scallies trying out their new stolen credit cards, doing runners after filling up, and flinging bottles and bags of coal around the forecourt. There were also the nightly thrills of the two hour stock-take and floor mopping.

After a few months of enduring this tedium I got fired for inaction‚. Some pissed-up knuckle-scraper pulled the cover off one of the pumps, leaving bits of it all over the forecourt and obviously rendering it inactive. Apparently, I should have reported this incident to the police. I didn't though and thankfully they alleviated me of my duties.

That was a crap job alright.

Marvellous.

Families

The day is winding down and a long weekend approacheth. Hurrah!

It is the weekend of the younger sibling's birthday party, and indeed that of the youngest niece, too. Saturday will therefore be fraught both in the afternoon and in the evening. Happily, other than in aiding the delivery of la sprogette to her party, I don't have to be there. One six year old is fine. Two are cope-with-able. A room full appeals only to other six-year olds.

The evening, of course, is when the extended portions of family arrive; the aunts and uncles, the cousins and cousins-in-law, the first cousins once, twice and thrice removed (actually, I don't think that there are any of these latter yet, but I doubt it can be that far off).

Of course, explaining the intricacies of family structure to the rest of the clan is lost. As far as they are concerned, someone is either a cousin or a second cousin. So explaining to my elder niece that such and such is her second cousin once removed is a futile endeavour.

Still, I feel it is important that someone keep track of these niceties.

Nonetheless, it makes my brain ache trying to work some of them out. Take my Auntie Ma for example (someone should >shudder<). Theoretically she is my dad's cousin (first, second, third - who knows?), but because of circumstances back when they were kids, my Nan and Granddad adopted her. So legally, she's his sister and my aunt. Except that she's also my second cousin once removed. And her daughter is simultaneously my first cousin and second cousin twice removed. So her granddaughters are simultaneously my nieces' second cousins and first cousins thrice removed.

I think.

All this without inbreeding.

Imagine if we were hillbillies?

Blimey.

Families

The day is winding down and a long weekend approacheth. Hurrah!

It is the weekend of the younger sibling's birthday party, and indeed that of the youngest niece, too. Saturday will therefore be fraught both in the afternoon and in the evening. Happily, other than in aiding the delivery of la sprogette to her party, I don't have to be there. One six year old is fine. Two are cope-with-able. A room full appeals only to other six-year olds.

The evening, of course, is when the extended portions of family arrive; the aunts and uncles, the cousins and cousins-in-law, the first cousins once, twice and thrice removed (actually, I don't think that there are any of these latter yet, but I doubt it can be that far off).

Of course, explaining the intricacies of family structure to the rest of the clan is lost. As far as they are concerned, someone is either a cousin or a second cousin. So explaining to my elder niece that such and such is her second cousin once removed is a futile endeavour.

Still, I feel it is important that someone keep track of these niceties.

Nonetheless, it makes my brain ache trying to work some of them out. Take my Auntie Ma for example (someone should >shudder<). Theoretically she is my dad's cousin (first, second, third - who knows?), but because of circumstances back when they were kids, my Nan and Granddad adopted her. So legally, she's his sister and my aunt. Except that she's also my second cousin once removed. And her daughter is simultaneously my first cousin and second cousin twice removed. So her granddaughters are simultaneously my nieces' second cousins and first cousins thrice removed.

I think.

All this without inbreeding.

Imagine if we were hillbillies?

Blimey.

Memes

I was going to fill out the latest meme questionnaire (what are the little bastards really called?) but then decided that I really can't be arsed.

Rather I now find myself wondering why people bother. Is it just the urge to write something when there is no particular inspiration, or is it a feeling top tell the world stuff you wouldn't tell most of your friends face to face?

I don't know. I'm not sure that I care, either. They can be interesting to read in a voyeuristic sort of way, but such a bind to fill out. And the questions are generally rather banale and tedious.

How many people have you slept with? Actually, loads. But it's the ones you stay awake in bed with that count.

What is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting/outing/event? If I could remember it wouldn't be that much would it? Suffice it to say one day I will tell you some horrible alcohol - related cautionary tales. Ask me about the half pint of Southern Comfort in one swallow one day. And the button mushroom down the left nostril. Christ, I can still feel that if I think about it too hard.

So.

No more memes questionnaires for me.

I'm quite capable of writing tosh no-one wants to read without artificial aid.

Memes

I was going to fill out the latest meme questionnaire (what are the little bastards really called?) but then decided that I really can't be arsed.

Rather I now find myself wondering why people bother. Is it just the urge to write something when there is no particular inspiration, or is it a feeling top tell the world stuff you wouldn't tell most of your friends face to face?

I don't know. I'm not sure that I care, either. They can be interesting to read in a voyeuristic sort of way, but such a bind to fill out. And the questions are generally rather banale and tedious.

How many people have you slept with? Actually, loads. But it's the ones you stay awake in bed with that count.

What is the greatest amount of alcohol you've had in one sitting/outing/event? If I could remember it wouldn't be that much would it? Suffice it to say one day I will tell you some horrible alcohol - related cautionary tales. Ask me about the half pint of Southern Comfort in one swallow one day. And the button mushroom down the left nostril. Christ, I can still feel that if I think about it too hard.

So.

No more memes questionnaires for me.

I'm quite capable of writing tosh no-one wants to read without artificial aid.