My friend Newt is gathering quite a following. He doesn’t know it but he isn’t actually a Newt and no-one dares tell him that. He’s happy as he is and you can follow him on twitter @newtydanewt. He often moves between Wales and England so I have drawn him a flag for both countries so he can display either/or, depending on where he is.
Welsh Newt
English Newt
So, really? Five years?!!!! has it been that long since I posted? Well without boring you all, here is a brief round up as I re-invigorate my love for drawing and ranting and generally talking nonsense:
So, now my new found enthusiasm for telling the world my inner most thoughts has officially been announced, here endeth my first post of 2012.
I’ve just been looking back at the post from April. What seems like eons ago, the sun was glorious, bright and bursting with warmth. The BBQ season came early, the birds were singing and everyone was preparing themselves for a major heatwave.
Well – HOW WRONG WE WERE! I can’t, in fact, remember what the sun looks like – It’s the middle of summer yet all over the country billions of pounds worth of damage has been caused by torrential rain and flooding. We now have a rubber dinghy and two life savers strapped to the side of the house in case we have to abandon ship and ride the waves.
The tomatoes L planted with enthusiasm in spring have become waterlogged and are rotting in their pots, the bathroom is constantly draped in damp clothes that can’t be hung out to dry and the new outdoor run for the rabbits is sadly rusting after minimal use.
We have managed to catch a few bright spells here and there but I can quite honestly say that I’ve managed to wear my shorts a maximum 5 times this year – four of which were in April. Alas, my legs are as pasty as the day I was born.
Last week we braved the weather to go camping in the Peak District – are we mad you ask? Well… Yes! But, because it had been booked for over 3 months, we felt we couldn’t let our friend down on her 40th birthday!
Donned in waterproofs jackets, trousers, wellies and with umbrellas for back up, 16 of us drove through torrential rain to pitch our tents on a mini outdoor swimming pool.
Camping has got to be one of the weirdest activities we folk choose partake in. I mean, why would anyone want to spend several sleepless nights on a hard, lumpy ground, being eaten by all number of blood sucking creatures and unable to make a cup of coffee without having to sit for 20minutes with a kettle over a flame no bigger than a large candle?
Inevitably the tent is pitched a peculiar angle because in the rush to get out of the rain, you paid little attention to the instructions. You then spend 40 minutes adjusting, readjusting, tightening guy ropes, altering tent pegs and swearing under your breath because the once dry interior is now developing a large, muddy welcome mat and you are far wetter than you would have been if you’d taken your time in the first place.
To make matters worse, the toilet is always a five minute walk from camp. So, if you’re like me and you’ve been woken at 4am by the birds singing, the cows bellowing and the sound of torrential rain on your tent, you then have a ten minute dilemma about whether you should ‘hold on’ until the morning or trudge half a mile up the road in your pyjamas and wielding an umbrella.
Personally, I refuse pee behind the tent unless it’s in the dead of night under cover of darkness. But during the summer, it’s already light by 4am so this isn’t an option. And besides, if you did decide to mark your territory at the end of a guy rope there’s always the fear that someone will hear you – god forbid!!
I rant on about it like I hate camping but actually there is something quite good fun about waking up and taking the first peek out of your tent to see what the weather is like even tho you can hear the rain. Then you totter stiffly to your friend’s slightly bigger tent to help prepare breakfast for 16 people over a teeny-tiny gas powered stove. There’s a sense of camaraderie and ‘community’, not just with you and your friends, but the whole campsite when you’re all suffering from blood-shot eyes, bad backs (if you have a poor quality bed roll) trench foot and the sense that you haven’t slept a wink in weeks. Its FUN!!
I have to mention that we did benefit from some great sunshine (for a WHOLE day) which meant we could charcoal slabs of meat and vegetables on a huge BBQ and sit around our make-shift campfire for several hours singing songs and telling jokes. It was certainly worth the effort – we hardly complained at all when we packed away our sodden tent under another rain-cloud! Nor did we bear any hard feelings towards our friend (the birthday girl) who spent the weekend in a B&B!
I’m recovering… this is good because on Monday I wasn’t sure I’d make it to the end of the week. Why? Well, L and I have started our latest fat burning, self-flagellating exercise regime.
Last night I tried to explain the idea to a friend who was horrified to hear that I, a carefree, sofa-hugging student would voluntarily get up at 6:30 am three times a week to cycle to work with L – a 12mile round trip! We started two weeks ago and since then I have ridden 3 different bicycles in a desperate attempt to make the journey that little bit easier.
Preparation for the regime required a week of psyching ourselves up and digging our bikes out of the shed. After dusting down the cobwebs, pumping up the tyres and reviving the rust-encrusted chains with a hefty dose of WD40, we were set to go.
The first day proved interesting. Whilst I chose to ride a relatively new, full suspension mountain bike, L chose to ride a rusty old bike of mine that had been shoved from hallway, to cupboard, to shed (and seldom ridden) since my first days at University in 1996. We donned oversized florescent green jackets and attached every bicycle light we could find in the house until we shone and flickered like gaudy Christmas trees. Off we went!
After a bit of crunching and grinding with the gear changes, my bike seemed to move fairly smoothly so I set off at a keen pace, eager to get the blood pumping! Five minutes down the road I turned to talk to L only to see a little flashing speck in the distance! “GET A MOVE ON” I shouted, “I have to make getting up at 6:30am worth the effort”.
Stony faced and gasping for breath L finally caught up and grunted something about gears and the seat being too low. “Huh” I thought to myself “she’s probably just unfit and being grumpy about it” so I begrudgingly slowed down to pedal alongside her.
20minutes into the trip and L was really really grumpy (that’s not like her I hear you say) and I was chirpily trying to coax her along, offering to swap bikes as the grinding gears hers still hadn’t eased. “NO!” she stubbornly replied and plodded on at an excruciatingly slow pace.
It took around 45 minutes to get to the hospital by which time the look on L’s face had turned to thunder. She obviously blamed me for the tortuous ride and the fact that she only had 15minutes to have a shower and get to the ward! Keeping calm, I offered some positive encouragement and persuaded her to swap bikes before I set off on the journey home.
WELL MY GOD!!!!! It turned out that the bike was the biggest heap of scrap metal ever to be ridden and I suddenly felt guilty for thinking it was just that L was unfit! (we both are and this bike did nothing to help) Yes, the seat was too low but the pedal on one side was askew making pedalling extremely difficult. To make matters worse the gears were jammed on high, helping to simulate a mountain stretch of the Tour de France. By the time I got home my legs barely functioned and I had to crawl, red-faced, up the stairs to the bathroom. L’s thunderous mood from earlier was remarkably contagious.
The second attempt: Both suffering from bruised private parts but with a positive outlook we set off. I was on the smooth ride with full suspension and changeable gears whilst L chose a Japanese ‘KIT’ bike put together by her father and rescued from the tip several days earlier! Well you can imagine… 10 minutes in and the complaints started to flow. I could see her brow break into deep furrows and the mood swing from mild enthusiasm into stubborn, why-the-hell-are-we-doing-this mode. A heated discussion ensued – “don’t be such a bloody martyr and swap the damn bike with me!” She did.
Again, cold hearted, unsympathetic me, had presumed L was being ‘difficult’ but this bike seemed to have a mind of its own. The gears changed of their own accord and the seat managed to wobble loose flipping into a very uncomfortable, vertical position. With 5 minutes to go before reaching the hospital and after several failed attempts to hold the seat in its correct position, I conceded and turned back.
I might as well have removed the seat all together and ridden on the pole because by this time the seat was so loose I slipped off the back with every adjustment. I rode most of the way back standing up before trying the seat sideways. It worked after a fashion but I now know why bicycle seats are designed the way they are…. trust me, forward is certainly the most ergonomic position.
NB: I know these things can be fixed in a jiffy with the right tools and an understanding of simple bike maintenance. However we were not equipped and our understanding of bike maintenance matches our ability to carry out surgery on a rhinoceros.
We cycled today (our 5th time) even though we’re still recovering from Wednesday’s wet and windy journey. The monsoonal weather helped L discover her waterproofs were not any kind of ‘proof’ at all. But even though she arrived home looking like a drowned rat, her mood was remarkably upbeat. She is now borrowing her father’s bike which has no problems apart from the rather large panniers that catch on her heels when she pedals.
The weather today was bright and crisp filling us with the joys of spring… well, we were as joyful as one can be when hot, sweaty and out of breath on a 12 mile cycle. But I’m interested to know at what point one becomes a true cyclist? Is it when you start to snarl at pedestrians that walk in the cycle lane instead of the allocated pedestrian path? Or is it when one discovers a hidden cycle rage that is difficult to control when cars pull out in front of you or park across a cycle path? Perhaps it’s when one has mastered the art of cycling up to a pedestrian crossing, balancing precariously on the bike whilst simultaneously pressing the button, then crossing the road without putting a foot down?
Whatever the case, we are getting on with it and even if some of our friends can run faster than we can cycle, I hope as our fitness improves we can shave at least 10 or 15 minutes off the journey time.
Postscript: I have since spoken to a couple of cycling fanatics to discover what a ‘real’ cyclist is all about. And I’m sad to say that we have a long way to go. Apparently you are not a cyclist until:
1) you wear lycra
2) you go for a 60mile cycle for fun!
3) you spend as much on a new bicycle as you would on a new car
4) you have more than one bicycle for different occasions
I think my friends are at the extreme end of the cycling scale, tutting and shaking their heads when I told them I was riding a mountain bike, with suspension on a road!! “Well THAT will get you nowhere”. I defended my bike saying at least it worked and although it may not be light enough to pick up with one finger, it’s good enough for me!
So it’s about time I wrote another installment – I always have things floating around in my head but never seem to get the time to sit down and commit it to paper/my virtual diary. There are a couple of things I wanted to cover. Firstly, I guess I should let you know that I’ve had my first feedback session re my university progress.
Things are better than expected. I was worried I wasn’t up to scratch but without trying blow my own trumpet – more appropriately a penny whistle – I’m on for a high 2:1 which could be pushed to a first if I iron out a few tweaks. My essay work has come back with a first which I’m very pleased about and thankfully we still have another two terms before the marks start to count towards the final degree. So with a little more ‘oomph‘ I might be able to make the grade!
It’s strange how the marks massage my little ego and make me feel like a school girl who’s just been given a gold star! I was clipping my heels and skipping down the street after my feedback. So pat on the back for me!
I am however, starting to slip deeper into student mode and although I’m still getting out of bed around 7 or 7:30am (an obscene hour for a student) and going to bed at 10pm, I seem to be getting a good healthy dose of daytime television. Of course, my fellow students know exactly where I’m coming from when I talk about “bargain hunt”, “to buy or not to buy” or “cash in the attic” but I fear it’s lost on my other circle of friends.
There is a vast choice of trashy middle-aged-house-wife type programmes but I’d consider myself a fairly picky viewer, preferring to stick to the programmes that give advice about money, buying new houses or how to cook a sumptuous three course meal. I have set myself standards and will not stoop to watching Ricky Lake (amazingly still going), Divorce Court or Loose Women, however lazy I’m feeling.
Sadly, when I try to engage my hardworking, employed friends in a conversation about my day time television bingeing they usually do one of two things:
a) look at me blankly then change the subject or
b) look at me with a slight narrowing of the eyes and a curl of the lip as if to say “you disgust me you, white, couch-potato trash – how could you stoop so low” and then change subject.
In my defence these programmes are never watched with my full attention as they tend to be background noise while I potter, clean or draw. And hey, if I want slightly more erudite background noise then I listen to Radio 4.
I can’t mention TV without saying that I think the BBC Breakfast News programme is dreadful. In fact, I think they should just drop the word ‘news’ completely unless one considers a 15 minute debate on ‘how to wear your scarf’ or a lenghty discussion on ‘whether fashion sneakers with wheels implanted in the heel cause your child physiological damage’ news.
I can’t believe they can dedicate 15 minutes of a ‘news’ programme to three camp men showing you how to tie your scarf when there is a whole world of important news to broadcast. Trivial little interludes are the sort of drivel you’d expect from ITV but NOT the BBC which I….. sorry…… L pays a television license for! And why is everything dumbed down to the level of Dodo IQ? The programme is swamped with over-simplified graphs, moving charts and animated lists to ensure we understand exactly what’s being said…. “Yes! I HAVE a BRAIN”!
Oh my god…. I sound like one of those crazy people who have nothing better with their time than to write to Points of View and criticise advertising and TV programmes. I’d better lay that one to rest before I start to rant about the ridiculous worldwide attention recently devoted to one particularly dreadful reality TV show. ARRRRGH ok B-R-E-A-T-H-E
A change of subject now to earning a crust! It’s been ages since I’ve had any paid design work and I was beginning to think I was never going to get another enquiry but in the last couple of weeks I’ve had two!! One of the jobs I’ve got in the bag – a lot of hard work which I’m not looking forward to (on top of my Uni projects) but at least it will go towards a flashy new Apple MAC…. This is my DREAM! Well, part of my dream. The other part involves a lovely little farmhouse, chickens, ducks, two dogs, a cat, an allotment and a large studio! But that might be a few years down the line yet.
The other job is a bit iffy, I’m just waiting to hear for a full brief but it’s basically three large illustrations for an interpretation panel on a nature reserve… COOLIO!
Now, I vowed I would never write another word about my rabbits in case you got the impression that I’m a 21st century Dr Doolittle but I couldn’t resist this.
Today, I went into our utility/rabbit pen/junk room and couldn’t find Clive. After much searching I heard a scrabbling noise and was shocked to find this…..(spot the Rabbit)
I’ve been back at University for a week now and we’re already in the thick of a new project. On our first day back we were asked to agree or disagree with a manifesto stating our skills should be used for the greater good i.e. to promote social justice, sustainable development, environmental awareness etc. An interesting project which has lead me to read a couple of books on the conflict designers have with earning a wage and being ethical.
It’s difficult to decide whether you accept a briefcase full of cash to design an advert for Nescafe or turn your back on it because you don’t agree with their ethics. Not that I’ve ever had to make that sort of decision – most of my freelance work has been for small organisations doing good work. But if I did have to make a choice, it would certainly be tough.
In an ideal world I definitely agree with the manifesto but sometimes we need to compromise. As far as I can, I will certainly look to work for organisations with a sustainable outlook and an environmentally conscious foundation… perhaps WWF or Greenpeace?
In a world where we are bombarded with adverts everywhere we go, it is hard to avoid being swept along by consumerism. For instance, since starting university I’ve tried only to buy the bare essentials; food, books, art materials, and petrol (when I don’t get the bus). But last week while I was trying to replace some holey jeans in M&S (note I was not buying a trendy label), I suddenly found myself amongst hoards of women pushing and shoving in an “Everything for £1 SALE”.
I didn’t really need anything but my pulse started to race and I broke out in a sweat thinking “I could buy 10 items of clothes for £10!!!!” I was right in there squeezing past the elbows, and trolleys laden with clothes, getting progressively hotter in the mission to find something a) in my size and b) suitable to wear in public. It was only 9.15am but in the 15 minutes I was there, the crowd grew and grew. The sound of hundreds of hangers scraping against rails must have called out to any woman passing the store – music to their ears. I can’t help being reminded of the Pied Piper and the rats!
There is something truly amazing about women in a sale – red faced and disappearing behind the mountain of clothes over one arm”oooh Tracy I’ve got a whole season’s worth of clothes and I’ve only spent £11″ , “Hey Chloe – I’ve wanted these for ages and LOOK they’re just a POUND!!!” My question is, what sort of initial mark-up must M&S have had to still make a profit selling things for £1?
In all honesty there really wasn’t anything worth buying there. Even in my coffin I wouldn’t be seen wearing some of the garish outfits on offer. I did snag a couple of pairs of trousers, which I’m not sure I’ll ever wear but hey, it only cost me £2!!!! Consumerism at its worst and I won’t dare to discuss the sweatshops… the miles travelled and the fuel consumed… the pollution, the packaging…. just so we can say we’ve got a BARGAIN!
So there you go, now I have to come up with a design that comments on this ! Not an easy one.
I had another age/trend dilemma last Thursday. It was P***ing down with rain so I took out my anorak (quite nice – Berghaus), picked up an umbrella and set off for Uni. You older, wiser folk might say to yourself “she’s a sensible girl”. But not long ago, I asked one of my student friends why he’d rather get soaked than wear a waterproof? His response was “Are you MAD? be seen in Public with an anorak?”. At the time I didn’t respond but made a mental note: Waterproof obviously = Geek.
So on the bus I started to consider whether I should actually wear the waterproof once I was reached the University premises. One more look at the torrential downpour and I decided to suss out the scene on arrival. 20 minutes later, on campus: Lo! Hundreds of students walking in the rain and not a waterproof in sight! The were all soaked to the bone with hoodies pulled over their heads in a vain attempt to keep their hair dry.
For a millisecond I considered taking my coat off then I thought – WHAT AM I DOING!? Its ludicrous to wander around in the rain with no form of protection for the sake of the trend! God is looking down on you, shaking his rain maker and laughing!
DAMN you fashion victims! Embrace your inner GEEK!
To top it off I wore my rucksack with BOTH straps on my shoulders because you know what? It’s much more comfortable when you have a bag full of books and they were designed to be worn that way. So all you students with back problems and lop-sided shoulders… it’s because you let TREND conquer PRACTICALITY!
Anyway, enough said… could someone please tell me whether I’m using the apostrophe in the right place when I write “it’s” or “its”?
Last night was the graphic desgin party in town. It took me a good chunk of the day to decide whether I was going to go. I was bombarded with horribly adult dilemmas such as, can I really have a night out on a weekday; I need at least 8 hours sleep so I can function properly in the morning; I should be saving my money and gosh ‘Town’ seems horribly far away (15mins by bus)’.
L convinced me that it was a good way to get to know my peers so I set about putting my glad rags on. It didn’t take long to reach the ‘OH MY GOD’ I have nothing to wear’ crisis mode. How can we have three cupboards full of clothes and NOTHING to wear??!
A full hour of stomping around the house huffing and puffing because nothing in the cupboards says ‘hey, I’m a designer, I’m cool and I fit in with the crowd even though I’m 11 years older than most of you and officially the granny of the class’! … Can clothes actually say all that?… I’m sure they can but unfortunately the most my clothes can muster is a feeble ‘help! I’m a fashion disaster’. Even the temporary blue hair dye, which a week ago had been my half hearted attempt to look slightly less ordinary was starting to fade into a lovely snot green. It was the proverbial icing on my very own burnt cake!
Several pairs of trousers and 20 tops later I resigned myself to jeans and a nondescript top – woo hoo!
It was L who drove me to the venue wearing pyjamas ‘because they’re comfortable, I can’t be bothered to change and I’m not getting out of the car’. We argued most of the way because I ruined her evening by making her drive into town, get diverted as far away from said bar as possible (via the one way system) and hit every red light on the way. I despair! Every Day we are a little closer to becoming the couple from One Foot in the Grave with L taking on the roll of Victor Meldrew.
Then I spent the first 30mins in the trendy bar on my own, trying to look like I wasn’t alone, friendless and unfashionably early… (I’m learning). Needless to say, it eventually turned into a fun evening… I now have a sore throat from shouting over the loud musica nd my ears are still ringing. Tell me, how can one have a good, hearty conversation and get to know people with such LOUD music???!
It is 10:48am, I have a horrendous hangover – the first in a long, long time and I’ve only had 6hrs sleep … But it was worth it and now I know a handful of the design student clones. I say clones, because many of the boys have the same quirky, spiked hairdos with a scarf tied jauntily around their necks and the retro golfing jumper… yes, I did say golfing jumper. Don’t you know they are IN?
I will now commit to memory via this blog, that I have met Nick, Phil, Graham, Tim, Steve, Paul, Lee, Will and a girl called Amy! Not bad recall for someone with a pounding head, ringing ears, a swimming stomach and bleary eyes! The joys of student life.
Gosh! time seems to move on quite swiftly – since I’ve left work I haven’t had a moment to sit down and write any blogs… well I wrote this one on the 12th but didn’t get round to posting it until now. So here you go…
Its raining hard today…On wet days it always makes me smile at the umbrella acrobatics and duels that take place in the crowded streets.A friend once said to me “save space, get rid of umbrellas” and she’d be right.On rainy days, on a busy pavement, there isn’t enough room for everyone AND their umbrella. The speed at which reach destination is greatly reduced on wet days because you have to go into battle with those giant, eye poking, block-out-the-light, space guzzling golf brollies.It should be compulsory for golf brollie owners to share some of the space in a similar fashion to car sharing. It would certainly save a few eyes, and make way for smaller less intrusive umbrellas.
It’s great fun to watch the brollie battles as two on coming people realise there isn’t enough room to brush past each other so they do a little jig raising their umbrella high above their head or tilting it to one side.Of course, the ‘side tilt’ is a dangerous manoeuvre as you can easily become entangled with another unsuspecting brollie carrier or worse, gouge a hole in the head a person who’s forgotten their umbrella at home.
Some people have the most folorn looking umbrellas you’ve ever seen, with bent or broken struts that hang down at a jaunty angle, funnelling torrents torrents of water on to the owner’s shoulder or more likely, the shoulder of someone else. And then there people who use the teeny, tiny umbrellas that just about keep the top of your head dry.What is the point of those?? (my friend, the one who doesn’t agree with umbrellas, has one of these) One’s toupee might stay dry but the other 98% of the body is soaked down to the bone! If you are thinking of buying one of these, let me give you some advice – save your coins and by a shower cap, it works just as well.
Did you know that the umbrella was originally designed to shade people from the sun over 4000 years ago! And the word ‘umbrella’ comes from the Latin word ‘umbra’ meaning shade or shadow… now how’s that for a bit of trivia?!
So I suppose I should briefly mention that its my first week at Uni and it’s running relatively smoothly – Freshers week was last week but I avoided the traffic light parties, the excessive drinking and all related activities.I did make and effort to go to the Freshers Fayre to see what free goodies were to be had and came home with a ton of useless flyers, a spatula, a teaspoon and a small pouch to put your old chewed gum in instead of spitting it onto the side walk. I thought this was an amazing piece of ingenuity but I’ll leave that subject for another time.
I have also discovered why most mature students sit at the front.This is something I used to ridicule when I was a student (the first time round). But now I know…we mature students WANT to hear what’s being said.Unlike the kids, who spend all their time gossiping about who fancies who and how hung over they are, we actually want to pay attention.In my first lecture,I had to steel myself from giving them a stern telling offFrom now on, I’ll sit near the front.There’s not much else to report as we are easing into things pretty slowly.Our first project is based on mapping and I’ve just spent the last hour highlighting bits chewing gum on the pavement….
I’ve just spent a week in France with the parentals! It was a fairly relaxing week… I guess helping mum to decide on what colour to paint the new bathroom and tromping around every bathroom store known to the French and Swiss people (they live near Geneva) for a suitable mirror is somewhat more relaxing than thinking about my own household issues!
I took part in the obligatory “meet my mum’s friends parade” – members of the United Nations Women’s Guild no less – which is always something I detest in theory but in practice it is never as bad. I brace myself for the introduction; practice my smile, my handshake and my most charming “it’s a pleasure to meet you”. I’m then likely to be lavished with kisses, two if it’s a French friend or three if it’s a Swiss friend, and plenty of ‘OH its wonderful to finally meet you, I’ve heard so much about you’. .. to which my response is “oooh I do hope its ALL good ha ha ha”
On this particular occasion I met two lovely ladies who managed to coerce me into attending the weekly UNWG hiking group which my mother runs. “It would be lovely to have you along, it’s an easy 3 hour hike this week, hurrah”
Well, the UNWG is primarily made up of over 60’s with a handful of ladies who are on the approach. It was insightful to say the least – adorned with bifocals, large print maps, walking sticks, first aid kits, medicines for cramp and most importantly a variety of edible goodies (for energy) we set off up a mountain. It was slow, steady progress…plenty of stops to catch your breath or to wait for the less energetic members of the group to catch up. Stop for a banana break here, a dried fruit break there, stop to search for a pair of lost glasses, someone quips ‘are we going the right way?’, stop to consider the direction. We double back on ourselves, “where’s so and so?”, stop to wait for her to catch up… it goes on and 3 hours turns into 6!
The walk was pretty tough and the descent in my mind was particularly treacherous. At half their age, I was struggling with sore knees, unsuitable footwear and keeping upright. I couldn’t bear to watch as some ladies teetered dangerously close to the edge of a steep drop. Every time I heard the sound of sliding gravel under foot I half expected to have my feet whipped out from under me in a ball of bifocals, rucksacks and dried fruit, then plunge to my death. But thankfully there were only a few wet bottoms and no major incidents. Unfortunately, the weather was pretty grim with heavy mist and drizzle so I can’t regale you with stories of awe inspiring vistas.
Nevertheless, it was an interesting insight into my mum’s generation! There was lots of raucous laughter (which hindered the wildlife spotting) and plenty of debate about how girls these days wore G-strings, memory loss, which part of the body is malfunctioning and whether it was good or bad to be offered a seat on the bus. My interpretation of the offer or don’t offer scenario is:
If a lady is in a good mood its bad – “how dare someone assume I’m not young enough or healthy enough to stand on my own two feet”. BUT, if a lady is carrying lots of heavy bags, feeling tired and grouchy then a nice, pre warmed seat is welcomed.
The week was good fun and was rounded off with a visit from L who was suffering from a raging cold and had just finished a week nights at the hospital. On arrival, hardly two words were exchanged before she slinked off for a cat nap and some well deserved rest.
The next morning we were up early to engage in all things Swiss. Des Alpes is an annual festival where the cows are herded down from the mountains for the winter but not before they are made to look utterly ridiculous. Christmas trees covered in paper flowers are tied to their heads and huge bells slung around their necks before they are paraded down the streets crammed with spectators. There are mountain dogs pulling milk floats, alp horns, yoddlers and St. Bernards carrying barrels of whisky around their neck – it’s a bizarre site and this photo doesn’t do it justice:
So this is it… not sure what I was expecting but I don’t really have any strong feelings about my last day! When I left my previous job, I was a bit choked up. I knew I’d miss my friends, the gossip sessions, the fun and the drawing competitions (obviously not the work) but here, I’ve met a couple of nice people but there isn’t really anyone who’d make it on my ‘top-ten-to-invite-to-dinner’ list or even my ‘how’s-about-a-coffee-over-lunch’ list… ok maybe one or two at most.
Yesterday, I got collared for a farewell presentation. I really didn’t see it coming so was fairly shocked when the entire open plan office gathered around to watch me squirm in hot embarrassment. If you know me, you probably know that on occasion, I quite like basking in the limelight but only when I expect it!
In my last job I’d anticipated a gathering having seen fellow ‘jumpers’ (i.e. people who jump ship, not the woollen things) subjected to various forms of farewell torture including bad poetry, songs and speeches which barely reflect the employee or the work they did.
It seems such a strange ritual to me, why do hoards of people gather to bid you farewell when you’ve never exchanged more than a ‘good morning’ or an ‘excuse me’ in the elevator? I suppose having been on the otherside, there’s some sadistic enjoyment to be had from anticipating how uncomfortable one can get when the cry of ‘SPEECH’ is thrown to the departee then thanking your luck stars you’re not in their shoes. Either that or by participating, you can feel comfortable in the knowledge that you’ve earned an iced doughnut or choc chip cookie from the table of farewell goodies that the leaver is obliged to buy for everyone.
Oh I’m sooo cynical! How is it I’ve managed to become a grumpy old woman 30years before my time!
But back to my goodbye gathering – they were lucky to corner me at all because just moments before I had been marching towards the door. One of my colleagues practically rugby tackled me to the floor on the pretence that my manager needed to have a word!
I don’t remember much about the speech except the odd ‘thank you’ about my recycling efforts and some sarcastic comment about my mathematical abilities (or lack of)! You’ll be excited to hear the office collection was spent on an ant farm, a marble frog paper weight, some paint-your-own ginger bread men and £20! …hmm an interesting array of gifts… They obviously took no notice of my plea for a golden light switch engraved with ‘Turn it Off’ . Ah well, this weekend, I’ll be off hunting for a queen ant to kick start my ant farm!!
Big Hair Metamorphosis 