It ain't right, and it ain't fair

The morning ritual at the Athenaeum Club is generally an immutable thing, certainly for me up in The Tower. The ritual involves the silencing of two alarms between 7.25 and 7.30, with the alarm radio kicking into life at 7.30 on the dot so I can hear the news. Then the Lord Wogan begins his Radio 2 show. It is a ritual designed to get me out of bed and ready for work. Generally speaking, there is a fifteen minute period of lying in bed hoping beyond hope that it’s the weekend, and that I’ve left the alarms on by mistake.

The next stage is to root around on the floor for the water bottle so I can wash down my Beep meddies (leaving them downstairs meant I kept forgetting, so bed side table it is). Then it’s up and to the basin so I can put my head under the cold tap in a vague attempt to wake up properly.

At that stage, I generally wander, bleary-eyed and yawning, and not a little damp around the edges, because I can’t always find the towel, to the computer room to check my e-mail and stuff over a cigarette and more bottled water. This takes between ten and twenty minutes depending upon boot up time (these post Norton installation days mean that boot up times are now measured in geological time), and how much rubbish has to be filtered out of the stuff I really want to read.

Then it’s dressed, downstairs and coffee, while watching BBC’s morning news programme, and waiting to find out from the local news reports whether the tube is going to be naughty or nice.

Increasingly, however, this semi conscious ritual is disturbed.

Now, I when I boot up the computer, there is a better than evens chance that I can just turn it back off and go downstairs straight away, because the intarweb connection is dead. This saves time, of course, which is nice, but that is then taken with the daily phone call to the ISP who seem incapable of doing anything but blame BT.

I really don’t care whose fault the fault is; I just want what I’m paying for. The trouble is, I can’t think of any way of pushing entanet along. We’re paid up until the end of July, so we’d be losing money if we dumped them now.

I want my mornings back; I shouldn’t have to think until I get to the office: 07.30 to 09.55 is when the autopilot is supposed to operate. My brain needs that period to accustom itself to the idea of work. Conscious thought ahead of the second cup of coffee (the first in the office) is, or should be, against the law.

I want my mornings back, and I want a working internet connection.

It ain't right, and it ain't fair

The morning ritual at the Athenaeum Club is generally an immutable thing, certainly for me up in The Tower. The ritual involves the silencing of two alarms between 7.25 and 7.30, with the alarm radio kicking into life at 7.30 on the dot so I can hear the news. Then the Lord Wogan begins his Radio 2 show. It is a ritual designed to get me out of bed and ready for work. Generally speaking, there is a fifteen minute period of lying in bed hoping beyond hope that it’s the weekend, and that I’ve left the alarms on by mistake.

The next stage is to root around on the floor for the water bottle so I can wash down my Beep meddies (leaving them downstairs meant I kept forgetting, so bed side table it is). Then it’s up and to the basin so I can put my head under the cold tap in a vague attempt to wake up properly.

At that stage, I generally wander, bleary-eyed and yawning, and not a little damp around the edges, because I can’t always find the towel, to the computer room to check my e-mail and stuff over a cigarette and more bottled water. This takes between ten and twenty minutes depending upon boot up time (these post Norton installation days mean that boot up times are now measured in geological time), and how much rubbish has to be filtered out of the stuff I really want to read.

Then it’s dressed, downstairs and coffee, while watching BBC’s morning news programme, and waiting to find out from the local news reports whether the tube is going to be naughty or nice.

Increasingly, however, this semi conscious ritual is disturbed.

Now, I when I boot up the computer, there is a better than evens chance that I can just turn it back off and go downstairs straight away, because the intarweb connection is dead. This saves time, of course, which is nice, but that is then taken with the daily phone call to the ISP who seem incapable of doing anything but blame BT.

I really don’t care whose fault the fault is; I just want what I’m paying for. The trouble is, I can’t think of any way of pushing entanet along. We’re paid up until the end of July, so we’d be losing money if we dumped them now.

I want my mornings back; I shouldn’t have to think until I get to the office: 07.30 to 09.55 is when the autopilot is supposed to operate. My brain needs that period to accustom itself to the idea of work. Conscious thought ahead of the second cup of coffee (the first in the office) is, or should be, against the law.

I want my mornings back, and I want a working internet connection.

Le Weekend

This is aimed primarily (well, solely) at the Ilford Massive, though if anyone else knows the answer, tell, pray do.

With the exception of the Mozart at the Royal Festival Hall on Sunday, my weekend is a mess of places to be at various times of random duration. For that reason, I haven't felt able to take advantage of westernind's offer of Chinese in Ilford, and such. That said, since I have contact details for members of the massive, if the situation changes, I might try and avail myself of a trip to the eastern steppes of London.

Now this begs the question from one new to lands north of the river, "how does one get between Ilford and Whetstone by public transport without disappearing into the centre?".

Answers on a postcard please, to the comments box below.

Thanks ever so...

Additional: Cripes! this North London malarkey is far more complicated than I thought. In the much maligned Sarf, there's busses ever'where, whether you want them or not!

Le Weekend

This is aimed primarily (well, solely) at the Ilford Massive, though if anyone else knows the answer, tell, pray do.

With the exception of the Mozart at the Royal Festival Hall on Sunday, my weekend is a mess of places to be at various times of random duration. For that reason, I haven't felt able to take advantage of westernind's offer of Chinese in Ilford, and such. That said, since I have contact details for members of the massive, if the situation changes, I might try and avail myself of a trip to the eastern steppes of London.

Now this begs the question from one new to lands north of the river, "how does one get between Ilford and Whetstone by public transport without disappearing into the centre?".

Answers on a postcard please, to the comments box below.

Thanks ever so...

Additional: Cripes! this North London malarkey is far more complicated than I thought. In the much maligned Sarf, there's busses ever'where, whether you want them or not!