Thoughts I had today

Shampoo!

A friend helpfully provided me with a link to ALL Shampoo songs recorded (or so he said). Fantastic! I downloaded the lot, even the ones I already had. The live ones are (as would be expected) a little, er, ropey (ok, they’re ropey as fuck! I don’t think Shampoo ever claimed they could actually sing!). Still, hooray! Feeling a bit nostalgic now. I had a T-shirt that said POW! On it, too! And me and my best friend at uni bonded over Shampoo in the canteen queue (along with her home made Kenickie T-shirt!). Said friend disappeared into thin air years ago. We had lived together, which led to disaster, because I got a bit fed up with her alcoholic girlfriend who was around all the time. The 4am ambulance calls because said girlfriend had drunkenly slipped in the shower weren’t that fun either. Neither was the puke all over the bathroom … carpet!

Listening to Shampoo reminds me of that friend. Particularly when we got bored on a Saturday night, drank Absinthe, played Cluedo and howled and danced along to Shampoo. And Catch. And Kenickie. I miss those times. I guess I’m too old for that sort of thing now. Or my friends are. Maybe everyone is. I don’t know. Still, I miss doing random things. I can’t remember the last time when I did something really random and silly.

Work

Had the big annual feedback performance report meeting at work today. Part of this is getting written feedback from my team, peers and random people across the office. I was a bit worried about that, because I’m a notorious worrier who thinks everyone hates me. To my surprise, the feedback gave a very strange view of what I am like. Or rather, what people at work think I am like.

Approachable

This is odd. Because people who know me from outside work and have nothing to do with work (ie my friends) seem to think the opposite. I’m generally quite rubbish at meeting new people (especially in group situations) and my pathological shyness gives me an annoying aloof (sometimes arrogant, I am informed) air. But I seem to be good at hiding this at work, it’s almost like some kind of bizarre game.

Caring

My team claims I care about them. Bless. A few Good Mornings seem to go a long way. Mind you, I did not have myself down as ‘caring’. I’ve been let down so many times at work, in life and so on, that I am fucking careful as to who I care about. And it takes me quite a bit of time to be like that with newly acquired friends, because I need to assure myself I’m not wasting my time first. But then, I do think I’m very loyal to my friends (not to be confused with acquaintances), even the ones that screw up. Heck I even have some sort of loyalty to various ex-boyfriend who were less than nice to me, because I think that, some time ago, I really did care about them. I may not care as much now, but still.

Knowledgeable

This one scared me. People think I am some sort of font of all knowledge at work. All it is that I have an excellent people memory. I could probably still list all the people I went to primary school with, their first names, their last names, where they lived and what their parents did for a living. I never forget a face either. And I figured out which bits are important to remember at work. That does not mean I am interested in economics (quite the contrary!) or consumer credit. I can reel off bits of consumer law, but most of it means nothing to me at all. It’s like I am watching myself in a strange movie called Work.

Friendly

Similar thing to ‘approachable’ I suppose. Why wouldn’t I be friendly? I’m at WORK, for goodness sake. Nobody really wants to be there, but why make my work life difficult by being an arse? I have blown my top at work on several occasions (like when I yelled at my then-manager and told him that ‘I had the right to be FUCKING ANGRY if I chose to be!!!’ and ‘If that bastard is still here tomorrow, I’ll FUCKING WALK!’). People don’t seem to remember that. Good. Most of my work-related fury I save for friends, anyway. Or I sit down somewhere quite where nobody can see me, stick my walkman on really loudly, chainsmoke, kick some dustbins and return to my desk as if nothing happened.

Copes brilliantly under pressure

Again, a mere pretence. I do not cope well under pressure. Only that nobody at work knows this. Because I pretend to be perfectly fine at work. The fact I seem to have developed insomnia and find it increasingly hard to switch off outside work is something they’ll never find out. Neither will they ever find out that I actually chucked up in the loo after my last job interview, because I was so fucking nervous. Some things are better left unsaid.

My mum!

My mum sent me the annual Easter parcel. It’s stuffed with chocolate. And hay. The latter is to keep it authentic and make me feel like I’ve just been to an Easter Egg Hunt in the countryside. I wasn’t. I picked it up at the local post office. Sometimes I worry that my mum still thinks I’m eight years old. I am 28. But still, I like my Easter parcels’ contents. Sometimes I think I should see my parents more often. I go home once a year for Christmas. They visit about once a year. I know they miss me. That’s why I get a lot of postcards and newspaper clippings (look, Julia! The local paper has something about Damon Albarn in it!) sent by my dad. His postcards are works of art. He likes to cut’n’paste weird stuff onto paper. I guess me and him have a lot in common there. Much as I love my dad to pieces, I am not sure I want to be exactly like him. I’m the spitting image of him visually as it is, and we have a lot of character traits in common already, and I’m discovering more of those as the years go by. My dad always knows exactly what is going on in this fucked up little brain of mine. Which is a bit disturbing at times, because it is meant to be MY brain.

Panic! On the streets of …

North Finchley, I suppose.

Don’t you just hate it when blind panic sets in. Happened to me yesterday. The kind that only lets you get two hours sleep and then you’re on the bus to work, because you fucked up somewhere along the line, and you think you may either hit someone or burst into tears for no apparent reason (and no, don’t give me that PMT theory!).

When you think everything is about to come crashing down on top of you, reducing you to a little pile of rubble in the process. Best of all, there isn’t actually any valid reason to panic. Everything is fine. Could be better, but nothing life-threatening. Just lots of little niggly things piling up. You sort out one, two more will appear.

The niggly thing called work. The niggly thing called trying to find a new flat (okay, that is in fact quite a big thing. Someone once compared the moving house experience to going through a messy divorce, stresswise), pony woes, friend upsticksing it to Canada for six months, mother threatening to visit, bills to pay, will Helen Love play Indietracks in the summer?, my friend had a breastcancer scare (and it was only a scare), will I ever be a grown-up?, another friend split up with his fiancé, will he be okay? Am I sending too many text messages? Maybe I should actually ring my friends more often, is it really March yet? And what if my friend is right and my fierce independence will be my downfall eventually?

Nothing too major, really. So why panic? What’s with the insomnia? Maybe I am hooked on minor crises? Hooked on blowing things out of proportion? Hooked on worrying? Like my friend’s mum, who was only ever happy when there was at least a nuclear war going on.

Maybe not quite that bad, but certainly with melodramatic headless-chicken tendencies. Trouble is, I can’t keep the melodrama to myself and am often found embroiled in hour-long telephone conversations, raving and ranting about nothing at all. What the hell is wrong with you?

I don’t know if everyone else has these tendencies, too, but they’re just better at hiding them. Maybe everyone else‘s brain is mental, too. They’re just very good at keeping up the pretence that they’re all well-balanced individuals without a care in the world. Happy fools even. Good morning, and how are you today?

In the meantime, I am trying to thrive on total chaos.

More on moving house

I have handed in my notice! Unfortunately, there was a 24 hour delay between my letting agency finding out and my flatmate finding out. Oops. Now I have a somewhat sour flatmate. Who will remain in the flat. The lovely, lovely, big flat I found and quite like. Oh well, at least she gets to spread out even more once I’m gone.

What is it with London and never being able to stay anywhere for more than two years maximum? Or is that just me? Mind you, it’s usually people that are to blame, not the houses themselves. People are a pain to live with, I’ve come to realise this once again. I don’t seem to be able to do it. I still have a friend’s words ringing in my ears. Yeah that’s because you’re a bit weird, with your fierce independence. You just can’t compromise about anything with any flatmate, no matter how nice they are! Yep, he probably had a point there. The prospect of moving out, being able to find a flat by myself and leaving my stuff lying around everywhere is quite appealing at this moment in time. I can just say I shall take this flat, put my deposit down and move in. Nobody to consult with. Nobody to agree with. No man is an island. Wrong, some people are! I will be an island with my own flat. And I won’t be fucking Ibiza. I’ll be Galapagos. Maybe. Galapagos kitted out in Ikea. With tortoises and dinosaurs.

No more of these pointless dinner conversations. No more how was you day? When I know for a fact that neither my or my flatmate actually wants to know what happened at the other’s work. No more squeezing past her horrid, horrid boyfriend in the kitchen. No more zero freezer space.

Instead I’ll be crammed into some kind of studio room enjoying my own company. If I want to talk to someone, I can either phone them or they can come round. If I don’t want to talk to anyone, I won’t have to. If I want to drag hay and woodshavings onto the carpet, I can. No more questions about why the washing machine is full of horse hair and no more hands off my looroll!

And I can have people round for dinnerparties if I feel like it! Heck, I can even have two dinnerparties! One for the horse-friends and one for the other ones. And they won’t be glowered at by flatmate and her biochemist pals.

A little rant about the horse world (and some horses!)

And just when I thought I’ll manage to avoid her for the entire winter … the single most annoying horse owner I know appeared at the stables last night. Irritating daughter in tow. Ok, the daughter has attention deficit syndrome, so she can’t help it. But, sometimes I really can’t be arsed to play babysitter for a hyperactive six year old because her mother has pissed off somewhere round the corner. Mind you, I disapprove of the way that child is handled in the first place. Annoying as they may be, there is no excuse to call your daughter a bitch and a whore. No matter what she does. No wonder the child is deranged. Anyways, moving on. Annoying horse woman. She is one of those people that acquired a horse in some half-arsed rescue mission. Those people that probably shouldn’t have a horse at all. You don’t see her all summer, the pony is dumped in the field and getting obese (last summer he looked like a hippo and waddled). By obese I mean not just a bit porky, but obese in the sense that there could be serious health implications for the poor blighter. The fact said pony also has ‘issues’ (he rears up randomly and can fly off the handle for no reason. He also lacks any sort of manners and displays some very bratty behaviour) doesn’t help either. Rather than trying to sort it out, this woman turns up once in a blue moon and is then surprised the horse still isn’t well behaved. Erm, no, it doesn’t know any better. How can you expect the poor sod to play nicely the ten times a year you actually bother coming up to see him?

Then she went on and on about how she sacked her latest sharer (note to non-horse people: a sharer is someone that rides your horse a couple of times a week and sometimes pays you for the privilege). Said sharer was a really nice and very competent Swedish girl. But annoying woman managed to fall out with her over money. Annoying woman falls out with everyone. So there she is, ranting and raving, completely ignoring the fact I just spent the whole day at work, my head hurts, I am hungry and would like to go home. Cue another rant. This time about her farrier. Well, not really her farrier either, as she just leeches on to whoever has the farrier up when she randomly decides her pony’s feet need doing. No wonder no farrier wants her on his books. She is annoying, the horse is nuts. No idea why she is yelling at me about it though. The farrier doing the no-show isn’t even mine. In fact I’m keeping my farrier’s details from her, because I’d rather he didn’t have to put up with her or her deranged horse.

She then proceeds to give me tips on how to keep my pony healthy. No thanks. Since I actually bother looking after mine and since I’ve been doing horse things since I was about eight, I don’t think I need advice from someone who doesn’t feed their horse properly, bought it a saddle that doesn’t fit on Ebay and relies on other people to look after her pony without doing anything in return … nope. Pull the other one.

I just wandered off with my friend and left her standing there in the end. She wouldn’t stop talking.

Moving on …

Pony Angel and I have found a new nemesis. Melody (why would you call a horse Melody?) arrived some time last week. Rumour has it she was at the yard down the road before. And Sarah heard that ‘the mare is a psycho!’.

Imagine my delight when I took my friend’s horse down to the field and found Melody The Psycho hanging over the gate wanting to leave the field. The gate opens outwards. Melody was pushing at it from inside the field, my friend’s horse got scared and tried to hide behind me (this didn’t work, he’s a big horse!) whilst I fumbled with the chain that holds the gate together. Eventually, after flicking a rope at her numerous times, waving my arms about going ‘SHOO!! MELODY! GET LOST! AWAY! PISS OFF!!’, she sauntered off and I could get my friend’s horse in there.

Then I collected Angel (who by this point was quite pissed off because I hadn’t taken her to the field FIRST) and stuck her in the field, too. Cue Melody running up to her like a crazed Banshee and booting her for no reason. And again. And again. Then Angel had enough, bless her, and went into pony attack mode. Unfortunately, Angel’s co-ordination at times of retaliation is rather rubbish, so it was mainly handstands, pinned back ears and impressive double-barreling of thin air. Still, it was enough to scare of young Melody. Phew.

Later it was time to get Angel and friend’s horse back in from the field. Got Angel out fine. Went back to get the other one. By this point Melody and Grace (the other horse in there) were positively desperate to come in from the field and looming by the gate in a somewhat menacing demeanor. My friend’s horse cowering somewhere in the distance, too frightened to go anywhere near the gate. Great. I had to go INTO the field and try to chase off the unruly lady horses. And somehow retrieve my friend’s horse without the other two legging it out of the gate.

Equipped with a rope, arms flailing and trying to be as scary as possible (the trick is to somehow get the horse to think you’re bigger and stronger than it. I am not very good at this and have previously been informed I resemble a chicken with a death wish when I attempt to outscare horses …) I went in. By this point Melody is busy kicking Grace and I’m stood in a VERY dangerous spot (eg between to horses having a fight. NOT a good idea!). As I attempt to scramble to safety, one of my wellies gets stuck in the mud and comes off. Argh! I hate it when that happens. Lost balance, my socked foot straight into the kneedeep mud. Then this stupid horse decides to make a beeline for me (probably worked out I’m her ticket to freedom because she just saw me opening the gate. Horses can’t open gates themselves, you see). I am beginning to panic at this point. I manage to pull the wellie from the mud but haven’t got enough time to actually put it back on, because this stupid horse is coming straight at me. I somehow managed to not fall over in the mud AND wave the red wellie at her like an idiot, swearing and flicking her with the rope at the same time. Lo and behold! She buggered off. And I managed to retrieve my friend’s horse, put my wellie back on and get him out of that darned field. I really wish people would explain to their delinquent equines that they are supposed to move out of the way when asked by ANYONE. Not just their owners.

And I hadn’t even realized that one of my trouserlegs was covered in mud to just above the knee. This was pointed out to me by the farmer’s kids. Thanks, guys. By this point I really didn’t care anymore and hoisted my muddy trouserleg, mud-encrusted wellies and hat covered in woodshavings onto the bus and went to Sainsburys. The checkout girl looked somewhat disgusted at the sight of me. Oops.

Dear Sir/Madam,

The tables have turned. I am currently embroiled in having to recruit a number of people for this department I work in. Scary stuff considering this is my first ever real job and I’m usually the one clutching the little glass of water in the interviewing room, coughing a lot and laughing nervously. And I’m usually the one agonizing over that application form, desperately trying to find more managementy words like ‘succeeded’ rather than ‘managed’ and ‘enjoyed greatly’ rather than ‘did okay’.

I wrote the job advert and lo and behold! Applications started to arrive. To make things easier, all people had to do was fill in a fairly straightforward form. None of that coverletter-and-CV nonsense. To my horror, I soon came to realise that maybe a CV and cover letter would have been easier for some of the (and I mean this in the loosest possible sense!) unlucky applicants.

The form is easy enough to populate. There are boxes for everything. Including the exact skill set asked for in the job advert. Communication! Analysis! Working with people! And so on.

Instead, some people invented their own competencies (decisional skills) or left the whole field blank. Another wrote no less than four paragraphs about his psychological air into the ‘communication skills’ box. I don’t know about you, but would you want to employ someone who basically threatens to psyche you out between the hours of nine and five? Exactly. I wasn’t sure about the motivational speeches either. It’s only an admin job, for God’s sake. And you, my dear, are not a life coach. So keep your excellent grammer and spelinge to yourself. And if you are indeed dyslexic, for goodness sake, ask someone to check the form before you send it off.

And why would you want to explain in great detail how one fillets a salmon under ‘analytical skills’? Don’t get me wrong, it made for a riveting read, but … why? And what about the gluten free party you threw in Lagos? Where your friend provided the entertainment (… he makes excellent music)?

As for ‘organisational commitment’. Well, well, you are applying for a job in an organisation. The clue lies in the title. This was your chance to give the impression you actually bothered looking at the Office’s web site. That you did some research and know what you’re letting yourself in for. It was not the box where you tell us how organised you are and that you’re always on time. Or that you are committed to keeping your desk tidy. Neatfreak!

All this may sound very harsh, and I do realise that filling in forms is a nightmare and that you probably did so in a rush, but … please … all I’m asking for is some sort of connection between the job advert and what you stick on the goddamn form. It’d be nice if I could actually read your handwriting, too! And don’t you realise that answering every question with I was a school governor for fifteen years! Is going to scare the living daylights out of me? Do you not realise you might come across as slightly deranged?

There were three of us sifting through those application forms. Plus gallons of tea. And biscuits. Two hours later, all three participants had started shrieking uncontrollably. Somehow, we decided on 13 (sic) interview candidates. I am looking forward to meeting these people in two weeks time. I don’t know what to wear yet and I do hope I manage to control myself and won’t collapse under the table laughing hysterically when you whip out that salmon.

(and yes, I am a complete bitch sometimes)

Two in three people suffer from STRESS at work

… so how can you beat it?

Sounds helpful enough, doesn’t it?

Keep reading …

Alright then, now that you have handed me this four page free Scientology newspaper after work, I might as well. For I am, of course, one of the two in three people who suffer from STRESS at work. To help me realise this, you have helpfully printed the word STRESS in a massive red font that looks like it’s cracking up. Along with pictures of people who are supposed to look STRESSed. There’s a man with his head in his hands, below we find a woman waving her arms at a man and she looks like she is shouting. Again, man burying face in hands.

What causes you to lose confidence? Why can’t you believe in yourself? What causes unhappy relationships? Where do unwanted emotions come from? Anger? Jealousy? Guilt? Fear? And last but not least, the semi-medical question: What causes unexplained illness and pain?

Yes, why! Dammit! Why why why? Can you help me, Mr Hubbard? Can you, can you can you? Pretty please.

(a friend actually urged me to put the paper down at this point, because he was worried about subliminal messages and fumes oozing from the print. I think they’ll have to do better than red and black ink in Times New Roman laced with pictures of people in powersuits for that).

Oh look! It’s called DIANETICS. There is a cure! A cure! A fucking CURE! For, it says here, there is a single source of all your problems … it’s called the reactive mind – the hidden part of your mind that stores all painful experiences, then uses them against you.

Hey ho, yes, people are volatile little things. Bash them on the head with a stick, they react. Show them a picture of a lamb being led to slaughter, they well up. Or is that just their petty little reactive minds talking?

To rid oneself of such creepy little things, one must embrace the analytical mind. So when someone next bashes you on the head with a stick, you’ll leave them to it. And the next lamb coming your way, you’ll merely view as lambchops. With dill.

Turn the page, pictures of happy people will appear. They’re laughing, they’re drinking coffee and they chat on the phone. Gosh, isn’t it lovely? And all because they have emptied their brains of anything remotely emotional. Great stuff.

Somewhere halfway down the page, I am informed that we will not put you into a trance. No? What a shame, I had been looking forward to that bit. How can you delete my reactive mind without me being in a pleasant semi-awake state of eternal bliss? What are you going to do instead? Talk me round? Go on go on gowangowangowan, please, reactive mind, would you please leave?

Oh, halfway there, with all these celebrities advising me on how to swap my mind, how can I resist? A certain ‘Chick Corea’ (award winning jazz keyboardist) tells me that he no longer suffers from ‘inner conflict’ (heck if I was into Jazz I’d be in eternal turmoil as well, Jazz is just so ghastly), whilst the bassist from Mr Big (what the fuck?) managed to ‘come out of his shell’. Now I wish the latter had stayed well tucked into his shell, because then there would be one less soft rock power ballad outfit with poodle hair bothering me.

My favourite part is the ‘quick crossword’ on the back of the paper, where little inconspicuous nobrainers like ‘tavern, 3 letters’ and ‘also, 3 letters’ mingle freely with ‘L. __ Hubbard, author and humanitarian, 3 letters’ and … wait for it … ‘tax free bank account, 3 letters’. Not sure how to react to this one.

Can I have my flat back now, please?

I have a bad feeling what I am about to write is going to sound awfully horrible and bitchy. So I would like to point out that my flatmate’s mum is a reasonably sweet little old lady who means no harm and is probably mortified by the inconvenience she is causing. My flatmate is overall okay as well, as far as having a perfect stranger you have nothing in common with living in your flat goes.

Flatmate announced before Christmas that her mum was coming to visit. Parental visits shouldn’t be a problem and since my flatmate had to put up with my slightly nutty mother for five days, why not? Then came the catch. Her mother would be staying for seven weeks. That’s right, SEVEN weeks, as in: nearly two months. She would be sleeping on a specially bought futon in the lounge for that duration. Bye-bye lounge.

I think we’re currently in week three. Another month to go.

Any simple manoevre in the flat (like, trying to open the fridge or getting into the bathroom) has since turned into a merry game of ‘You go first!’ – ‘no! you go first!’ – ‘thank you thank you’ – ‘no problem’. I am reasonably polite and certainly polite to people’s parents. I am sure her mum reckons I’m quite a polite person. But … I am about to crack. I cannot deal with this any more. Even a simple task like trying to have my dinner in the lounge has turned into a major operation. During which flatmate and her mum exlaim ‘’no no! you must eat at the table! We clear our laptops away! No! no! please! Take a seat!’, when I was more than happy to eat on the sofa. By now I have taken to eating in my room. At my desk. It was too much to handle that sort of thing after work and whatnot. I am sure they have noticed my anti-social behaviour.

They’re also slowly taking over the flat. I lived in this flat for a year before my flatmate moved in. I never had a problem sharing cutlery and stuff with flatmates (as long as they don’t scorch my Ghostbusters plate or smash my Thundercats mug that is). But, new flatmate immediately divided up the kitchen. Two thirds of the storage place had to be hers, I got the remaining third. So I got a little trolley thing for the rest of my stuff. She started filling that up as well. We even use different washing up liquids and use either side of the sink for drying our dishes. Needless to say, I got the shitty, small side of the sink. The fridge is now divided into half. I never saw the point in that. I mean, I know what I bought and I know what I didn’t buy. And I have no intention of nabbing anyone’s food. Mind you, that doesn’t seem to matter now, because she has filled up my half of the fridge as well now. As well as the entire freezer. I have NO freezer space.

They have also taken to pile anything of mine that is anywhere in the kitchen onto my little trolley. Strangely, it’s okay for them to leave dirty pots on the hob, but if I do it, it goes onto my cutlery drawer. Today I found they stuck a sock into the cutlery drawer. Presumably a washing machine stray. But why chuck it into the cutlery drawer? I don’t understand.

Sometimes it feels like I am not really there at all. They take over the kitchen, they’ve taken over the lounge and keep moving my stuff around. I am 28 years old, I do not need my stuff moved around.

Then there is the weekends. Then it’s not just her mother and her, but also … her strange boyfriend (who always looks really angry and is not much fun to be around), her biochemist uni friends (three of them) and various other random people. They hog the lounge. They actually close the door to the lounge when they’re in there, which leaves me feeling somewhat out of place in my own home. I don’t mind flatmates having friends round, but do they have to behave like they own the place and I shouldn’t be there. When I live there, too?

Then there is the constant cooking. I don’t mind people cooking, but surely frying cabbage at 6am almost every day is a little odd? I have been waking up to the smell of that stuff for three weeks now, and I’m tiring of it pretty quickly. Yesterday they stewed an entire eel. I stupidly did some washing and left it in the hallway to dry. Half my wardrobe now smells strongly of eel. Eurgh.

Then there is the cleaning announcements. I have now cleaned the bathroom. Yeah, and? I cleaned it the week before, but did not make a big deal out of it. Plus, I actually cleaned the toilet, whilst you only clean the bits you like. They have also taken to washing stuff that is mine. Sorry, but why would you need to boilwash a handprinted sofa cover every week? I’m surprised the thing still has colour in it.

And if I leave anything lying around the lounge, it lands … in the cutlery drawer. Whilst my flatmate keeps two massive cardboard boxes full of assorted junk, half the contents of the Chinese supermarket and a load of other paraphernalia in the lounge on a permanent basis. And I’m too nice to say anything. Okay, maybe not too nice, but I really don’t want any hassle in my flat. I live there. I do not wish to live in a Cold War zone, thank you very much.

But, it’s beginning to really stress me out now. I cannot deal with all these people in the flat 24/7. And I’ll soon reach the point where I won’t be polite any more. Where I won’t just smile and nod and wait my turn in the kitchen/bathroom/lounge. Then I may snap at them. They won’t like it, I won’t like it either. Another four weeks of this.