Filed, naturally, under W for Wife.
I'm not sure that researching and producing international conferences for tens or hundreds of executive delegates in my former life really prepared me for the role of Clerk of Works in the decidedly non-FTSE listed company that is the Celestial Swamp. It has not, however, prevented that mantle being hung over my shoulders.
On first name terms with a local builder, plumber, electrician, digger-man, fencer, oil and gas companies,farmers,
Thursday, 21 March 2013
Thursday, 14 March 2013
Fitness with Frills
Another senior moment this week, I'm beginning to be a little concerned at how frequent these are becoming!
In order to try and fit in a little fitness, I deposited children at home after school, mentally prepared for the evening meal and dashed out the door with a pre-packed bag for the gym; the idea being that I'd be able to fit in a little more work afterwards in the cafe that forms part of the leisure centre.
I was pleased with my organisational skills but found to my dismay that although I had packed everything else I might need, there was no gym-top or t-shirt in sight. Undeterred, I walked around to the reception desk and asked if there were any spare shirts I might be able to borrow, wash and return (I can't be the first person to forget some kit).
Nyet. Clearly not inclined to even consider this option - in spite of the fact that there are health club shirts being worn a-plenty in the building, and must be in situ to dish out to new members or those simply wishing to pretend they frequent such a facility - the receptionist neither shifted her feet nor her gaze. Not open for discussion at all. So I returned to the changing rooms faced with the choice of making a forty minute round trip home to collect the darned thing, or soldier on.
A turquoise and black sports bra may not be your first choice to wear with a white vest with lacey frills, but let me assure you that it is now quite the thing. I did consult another before venturing out and was comforted with the words, "Well, anything goes nowadays, doesn't it?" It didn't stop me folding my arms in front of me on the long walk upstairs and then scuttling to the first machine I saw, setting the timer for three times longer than usual and then staring with unusual concentration at the small tv screen on the cross-trainer. It's the old head in the sand trick, if I don't see them, they can't possibly notice me.
Forty minutes later I was brazen in my possibilities, switching between machines and weights with abandon, but still not holding anyone's gaze. However, cometh the hour, I didn't think I could face the stretching/close proximity area so scuttled out, head held high and still feeling like a fool! I'll pack a shirt first next time.
In order to try and fit in a little fitness, I deposited children at home after school, mentally prepared for the evening meal and dashed out the door with a pre-packed bag for the gym; the idea being that I'd be able to fit in a little more work afterwards in the cafe that forms part of the leisure centre.
I was pleased with my organisational skills but found to my dismay that although I had packed everything else I might need, there was no gym-top or t-shirt in sight. Undeterred, I walked around to the reception desk and asked if there were any spare shirts I might be able to borrow, wash and return (I can't be the first person to forget some kit).
Nyet. Clearly not inclined to even consider this option - in spite of the fact that there are health club shirts being worn a-plenty in the building, and must be in situ to dish out to new members or those simply wishing to pretend they frequent such a facility - the receptionist neither shifted her feet nor her gaze. Not open for discussion at all. So I returned to the changing rooms faced with the choice of making a forty minute round trip home to collect the darned thing, or soldier on.
A turquoise and black sports bra may not be your first choice to wear with a white vest with lacey frills, but let me assure you that it is now quite the thing. I did consult another before venturing out and was comforted with the words, "Well, anything goes nowadays, doesn't it?" It didn't stop me folding my arms in front of me on the long walk upstairs and then scuttling to the first machine I saw, setting the timer for three times longer than usual and then staring with unusual concentration at the small tv screen on the cross-trainer. It's the old head in the sand trick, if I don't see them, they can't possibly notice me.
Forty minutes later I was brazen in my possibilities, switching between machines and weights with abandon, but still not holding anyone's gaze. However, cometh the hour, I didn't think I could face the stretching/close proximity area so scuttled out, head held high and still feeling like a fool! I'll pack a shirt first next time.
Wednesday, 13 March 2013
Papal voting
Does this remind anyone else of the Tri-wizard tournament in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire?
Rather like J K Rowling's story of secret competition entry, strict age-entrance requirements, clandestine meetings and bizarre methods of communicating victory; the Vatican is currently hosting a large number of visiting dignitaries, none professing to want the job, yet all secretly wondering if they might be able to pull it off.
The Great Hall at Hogwarts has been substituted with the fabulous Sistine Chapel, for once clear of a constant babble of tourists all trying to sneak forbidden photos. The great and good and the faithful are not to learn of who voted for whom and when, yet that doesn't stop the world's media from speculating whether a Brazilian or African cardinal may become the first non-European incumbent for several centuries. Rita Skeeter and her 'quick quote'pen had no qualms when interviewing HP in a cupboard, happy to imply an unseemly willingness in his eagerness to participate.
No cup will spit out the name of the final candidates, but black smoke will issue forth from the specially constructed chimney to let us know that the cardinals are still whispering behind closed doors. With luck, the victor won't have to confront his Voldemort in order to emerge victorious and instead of witnessing death, we'll see white smoke over the Vatican before too long.
Rather like J K Rowling's story of secret competition entry, strict age-entrance requirements, clandestine meetings and bizarre methods of communicating victory; the Vatican is currently hosting a large number of visiting dignitaries, none professing to want the job, yet all secretly wondering if they might be able to pull it off.
The Great Hall at Hogwarts has been substituted with the fabulous Sistine Chapel, for once clear of a constant babble of tourists all trying to sneak forbidden photos. The great and good and the faithful are not to learn of who voted for whom and when, yet that doesn't stop the world's media from speculating whether a Brazilian or African cardinal may become the first non-European incumbent for several centuries. Rita Skeeter and her 'quick quote'pen had no qualms when interviewing HP in a cupboard, happy to imply an unseemly willingness in his eagerness to participate.
No cup will spit out the name of the final candidates, but black smoke will issue forth from the specially constructed chimney to let us know that the cardinals are still whispering behind closed doors. With luck, the victor won't have to confront his Voldemort in order to emerge victorious and instead of witnessing death, we'll see white smoke over the Vatican before too long.
Tuesday, 12 March 2013
Mammogram
The NHS letter led me to believe that I was special, one of the chosen few. Still in my late-mid-forties, I wasn't aware that I was up for free mammograms, but it would appear that the age limit has been extended at either end of the spectrum and today was to be my lucky day.
Its sub-zero here and the wind chill factor makes it seem as though we've been whisked up, Dorothy-style, and plonked down somewhere on the Russian Steppes. The prospect of stripping from the waist up, therefore, did not appeal and I followed the letter's suggestion to trot along to the good ship lollipop, (mobile unit that resembles one of those 'virtual thrill-seeking rides' that parks up at any half-baked seaside town),clutching a spare cardigan to cover the shoulders whilst waiting. Actually I had more than the shoulders in mind!
Clearly invented by a man, this clamping device with a mind of its own is not designed to ensure relaxation, comfort or reassurance. On a cold day; and no chance for a cardigan, I was whisked from cubicle to screening room in an unseemly haste; my breasts were man (well, woman) handled into position and I was invited to stand this way, or that, to face that wall, then this, to relax my shoulders, my arm, lean backwards, move my hair out of the way, hold the other breast with my (deep) frozen free hand, wait a moment please, it won't be long, have the pressure increased...
It serves a purpose and a very good one, but I'm sure that a female led, and let's face it cash enhanced, NHS, would have allowed for a softer approach, both mechanical and human. Results in a fortnight!
Its sub-zero here and the wind chill factor makes it seem as though we've been whisked up, Dorothy-style, and plonked down somewhere on the Russian Steppes. The prospect of stripping from the waist up, therefore, did not appeal and I followed the letter's suggestion to trot along to the good ship lollipop, (mobile unit that resembles one of those 'virtual thrill-seeking rides' that parks up at any half-baked seaside town),clutching a spare cardigan to cover the shoulders whilst waiting. Actually I had more than the shoulders in mind!
Clearly invented by a man, this clamping device with a mind of its own is not designed to ensure relaxation, comfort or reassurance. On a cold day; and no chance for a cardigan, I was whisked from cubicle to screening room in an unseemly haste; my breasts were man (well, woman) handled into position and I was invited to stand this way, or that, to face that wall, then this, to relax my shoulders, my arm, lean backwards, move my hair out of the way, hold the other breast with my (deep) frozen free hand, wait a moment please, it won't be long, have the pressure increased...
It serves a purpose and a very good one, but I'm sure that a female led, and let's face it cash enhanced, NHS, would have allowed for a softer approach, both mechanical and human. Results in a fortnight!
Monday, 11 March 2013
B is for boiler
B is for boiler, and comes under other domestic duties for the homebound spouse.
Someone, somewhere, responsible for the Law of Sod dictates that whenever the weather gets truly icy, the boiler has a hissy fit. Last night working perfectly, this morning - kaput. We have oil in the tank, albeit a greatly diminished amount due to recent cold and the thermostats are trying their best to indicate to the boiler that it's time to ignite, but it's not listening.
Donning kit fit for Scott of the Antarctic at 7.15 this morning, I went to investigate; trying my one trick, the automatic re-start button, I paused for effect waiting for the familiar roar to indicate success. Not even a sputter. The boiler repair-man isn't answering the 'phone, but I've left a message and am trying not to twitch each time I think I hear a 'ting' - at least I can switch on the immersion heater to guarantee a hot bath or two later in the day.
I show little patience with the offspring when they fail to light the woodburner without a firelighter, never failing to tell them how easy it is; how I've started campfires in the middle of the jungle using plenty of puff and a single bit of dried bark retrieved from halfway up a tree, and warning of Armageddon when luxuries such as firelighters won't exist. Today, I'm on their side. I have used the best part of the Sunday paper, quantities of kindling, half a box of matches, filled my lungs with smoke and all to no effect. The winds are swirling down the chimney, blowing pretty patterns kaleidoscope style, with the ash, and that will be my excuse!
The youngest is at home today and we have both taken shelter in the same room; our one electric heater near the ailing one and me wrapped up like the michelin man. Creative writing might be a little tricky with teen-tv in the background, so I've loaded the washing machine anticipating the need for the tumble-drier in an hour or so, when I can sit near it and write!
Roll on spring...
Someone, somewhere, responsible for the Law of Sod dictates that whenever the weather gets truly icy, the boiler has a hissy fit. Last night working perfectly, this morning - kaput. We have oil in the tank, albeit a greatly diminished amount due to recent cold and the thermostats are trying their best to indicate to the boiler that it's time to ignite, but it's not listening.
Donning kit fit for Scott of the Antarctic at 7.15 this morning, I went to investigate; trying my one trick, the automatic re-start button, I paused for effect waiting for the familiar roar to indicate success. Not even a sputter. The boiler repair-man isn't answering the 'phone, but I've left a message and am trying not to twitch each time I think I hear a 'ting' - at least I can switch on the immersion heater to guarantee a hot bath or two later in the day.
I show little patience with the offspring when they fail to light the woodburner without a firelighter, never failing to tell them how easy it is; how I've started campfires in the middle of the jungle using plenty of puff and a single bit of dried bark retrieved from halfway up a tree, and warning of Armageddon when luxuries such as firelighters won't exist. Today, I'm on their side. I have used the best part of the Sunday paper, quantities of kindling, half a box of matches, filled my lungs with smoke and all to no effect. The winds are swirling down the chimney, blowing pretty patterns kaleidoscope style, with the ash, and that will be my excuse!
The youngest is at home today and we have both taken shelter in the same room; our one electric heater near the ailing one and me wrapped up like the michelin man. Creative writing might be a little tricky with teen-tv in the background, so I've loaded the washing machine anticipating the need for the tumble-drier in an hour or so, when I can sit near it and write!
Roll on spring...
Monday, 4 March 2013
Chauffeur
I'm not aware of making the life choice to become a semi-professional chauffeur; indeed I baulk at the definition that says such a person is employed to drive...at what point did I sign that contract? Yet it would appear that one of the chief joys of living in our sub-rural neck of the woods is that I spend more time driving out of it than living in it.
Friday, 1 March 2013
Time and Space - Water cooler moments
The reason behind the relatively recent resurgence in popularity of coffee 'bars', I was told today, is 'time and space'. They were quite the place to be in centuries gone by when the expense of the beverage meant it was imperative for anyone who was anyone - for which read any man who was any man - to be seen quaffing the stuff. And in recent years, whether indpendent of part of a chain, they have begun to take over the high street in most towns.
In a world of instant communication, long working hours, children partaking in more extra-curricula activities than ever before, sometimes juggling a second job and/or being a carer and the feeling of failure if one doesn't accomplish all of these things and more, we will willingly pay for some time and space.
How many of us actually sits down to enjoy a cup of coffee or tea at home? I lose count of the number of cold cups I find either in the kitchen or at my desk, no time to drink, or lost in work and the hot beverage forgotten. Space, the ability to get away from the multiple chores, the pile of extra reading or report writing. If you're at home, it's there staring you in the face. Magic yourself away for half an hour and you can pretend, if you're lucky even forget, that it exists. Even mothers of young children take their job (kids) with them; they have to look after their offspring, but the washing up or the mundanity of building another duplo model is temporarily displaced.
Social media means that we should be better at communicating with our friends and family; but a line or two exchanged in print on a screen in no way compensates for the face to face experience involved in taking time and space for coffee, or tea, or whatever takes our fancy before re submerging ourselves in the all consuming humdrum of 21st century life.
For me, and many others like me, working alone and at home, time and space is an opportunity to re-connect with the outside world. These are my water-cooler moments, seldom taken but welcome when they do. In recent years I've marvelled at sculptures suspended from cafe ceilings, wondered why the person sitting at the table diagonally opposite is so tanned, felt sorry for a line of elderly women all sitting alone - each at their own table, non communicating - laughed at waiter's jokes, overheard conversations that make me smile, want to weep, question; noted the five different Eastern European nationalities represented by the baristas and counted carrot cake as one of my five a day!
These solo trips aren't a 'jolly', an excuse not to work, they're a chance to re-charge the imaginative batteries, to seed the germ of an idea with regard to a character trait, a short story or remind me of a detail I could/should include for a minor background character. Vital; without my time and space, my well of inspiration would slowly dry.
I have no office e-mails, (thankfully), nor office politics, (even better!), but the occasional opportunity to meet for a coffee with a friend replaces this lack of banter for me and more than amply rewards the time spent away from pen and paper.
With thanks to Julie, who today told me of her time and space theory and was my water cooler updater!
In a world of instant communication, long working hours, children partaking in more extra-curricula activities than ever before, sometimes juggling a second job and/or being a carer and the feeling of failure if one doesn't accomplish all of these things and more, we will willingly pay for some time and space.
How many of us actually sits down to enjoy a cup of coffee or tea at home? I lose count of the number of cold cups I find either in the kitchen or at my desk, no time to drink, or lost in work and the hot beverage forgotten. Space, the ability to get away from the multiple chores, the pile of extra reading or report writing. If you're at home, it's there staring you in the face. Magic yourself away for half an hour and you can pretend, if you're lucky even forget, that it exists. Even mothers of young children take their job (kids) with them; they have to look after their offspring, but the washing up or the mundanity of building another duplo model is temporarily displaced.
Social media means that we should be better at communicating with our friends and family; but a line or two exchanged in print on a screen in no way compensates for the face to face experience involved in taking time and space for coffee, or tea, or whatever takes our fancy before re submerging ourselves in the all consuming humdrum of 21st century life.
For me, and many others like me, working alone and at home, time and space is an opportunity to re-connect with the outside world. These are my water-cooler moments, seldom taken but welcome when they do. In recent years I've marvelled at sculptures suspended from cafe ceilings, wondered why the person sitting at the table diagonally opposite is so tanned, felt sorry for a line of elderly women all sitting alone - each at their own table, non communicating - laughed at waiter's jokes, overheard conversations that make me smile, want to weep, question; noted the five different Eastern European nationalities represented by the baristas and counted carrot cake as one of my five a day!
These solo trips aren't a 'jolly', an excuse not to work, they're a chance to re-charge the imaginative batteries, to seed the germ of an idea with regard to a character trait, a short story or remind me of a detail I could/should include for a minor background character. Vital; without my time and space, my well of inspiration would slowly dry.
I have no office e-mails, (thankfully), nor office politics, (even better!), but the occasional opportunity to meet for a coffee with a friend replaces this lack of banter for me and more than amply rewards the time spent away from pen and paper.
With thanks to Julie, who today told me of her time and space theory and was my water cooler updater!
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