Current Sanity Status - questionable!

Frustrated! Angry! Bemused! and its all down to the NHS which no doubt stands for 'Not Helpful for Sanity!' The debacle continues:

Up until 10 days before L was due to start her new job, she still hadn’t heard any details about which hospital she’d be working in, who she should report to, what her contract would be or any of the things one should expect before entering new employment.

Naturally a little perturbed, bordering on concern, L phoned the lady she’d had most recent contact with. After explaining the situation and expressing her worries, the voice on the other end stated, with indifference, that she was no longer dealing with L’s details and didn't know who was. After a little coaxing, she suggested L contact hospital X (no names just the hospital)!

When L finally managed to track down the HR person in charge of her new post she was greeted with “THANK GOD you’ve called! We’ve been waiting for you to ring us because don’t seem to have any of your contact details. All I have here is your last name and the department you'll be working for!” Followed by “we still can’t confirm your appointment until we’ve had your references” and “no cause for alarm"!

Can I just remind you that this was 10 days before L was due to start. What happened to all those copies of CV’s, reference letters, online references (through the now non-existent online application service) and details she provided for her interview in MAY? Obviously the Not Helpful for Sanity paperwork Pixies had multiplied and were now wreaking havoc with applications! These being the same Not Helpful for Sanity Pixies that stole L’s paperwork three times last year, preventing the Not Helpful for Sanity financial staff from paying L the correct wage for 10 months! I digress…

Wednesday: on the first day of her new job, L knows which hospital she’ll be working at but hasn’t had any details regarding induction or who to report to. Making an educated guess she arrives at her allocated department only to discovers that the induction is being held at a rugby club several miles from the hospital. Undeterred, she rocks up at the club (late) to be greeted by flustered staff who don’t seem to have her name, staff badge nor, for all accounts and purposes, evidence that she exists!

Those cheeky Pixies!

After an excruciatingly tedious afternoon of health and safety talks and ‘in-case-of-fire’ instruction, she still was no clearer as to her rota, her pay, her contract, holiday allowance etcetera etcetera. She also becomes a little uneasy after a hearing several other examples of the Not Helpful for Sanity’s expertise in disorganisation. A the Trust employed 6 new doctors - Two didn’t have up-to-date working visas therefore, four people will now be covering the work of 6. Worse still, one poor girl turned up for the induction only to find that the clinic she was contracted to work for had closed but no-one had bothered to let her know. Several people were still being interviewed 2weeks before their job started (I feel sorry for those with children). L still hasn’t seen a rota or contract…

Thursday: second half of induction, still no contractual information. A rota is apparently being ‘drawn up’. It's becoming clear that the Not Helpful for Sanity Pixies have tied up the entire HR department, kept them in a dark room with no access to a calendar, paperwork or a computer for the last two months.

Friday: First tentative steps into the department – L is developing a nervous tick and after encountering several severe traffic jams on her journey to and from the hospital (3hours travel a day), she has a slighty maniacal look about her.

4pm Friday Afternoon: Still hot from the printer, L receives her rota. She must now cancel all arrangements for the weekend as she will be on call from 8am Saturday morning! I feel the anger welling up and another grey hair spring from my scalp so I can only imagine how L must be feeling. More bad news, she needs to start at 7:30am at least one day a week over the next four months meaning a 5am start to ensure a timely arrival.

Monday am: Phone call from L….”they want me to start at 7:30am every day…” pause “WHAAAAAAAAT!” L’s new consultant is apparently unsympathetic to anyone’s travel issues. On the spur of the moment he decided to change the rota.

Unsurprisingly I am feeling disgruntled. I have seen L (awake) a total of 15minutes since Saturday. She will not be home tonight deciding it was easier to stay in a hotel near the hospital instead of attempting a 5am start. With our house on the market and the aim to move to a bigger house before Xmas, I'm glad we've made the decision to stay in and around Beeston. For the next year (minimum) I will be on my own quite a bit and the idea of being alone, in a new house somewhere in the countryside, miles from friends and everything familiar is not all together appealing. We wait with baited breath for news that the two non-visa doctors are re-employed and the rota becomes less intense.... We could be waiting sometime.

British Summer

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!

One long post... backdated to April!

Some time in April
The sun has been shining happily for the last week! It’s put the whole nation in a good mood and in true British fashion, no matter what the temperature, if the sun is out, everyone gathers to worship it.

It’s an excuse for men to display chests that are so white they’re almost blue, for bikers to take their take their dolly birds out for a spin, for the well off to drive their sports cars with the tops down, for the houseproud to give the garden a make over and fire up the barbecue and for herds and herds of people to flock to the pubs to fight for space in the beer gardens. Even the BBC breakfast news is doing 10 minute slots on mastering the BBQ menu.

I’ve also been taking advantage of the weather, spending time walking, gardening and having picnics with friends – who would have thought it for April?! At the moment no-one is complaining, the air is fresh and crisp, the blossom is on the trees and everyone is joyous - even I could be persuaded that climate change is a good thing (oooh controversial)!!

It’s the first proper sunny spell of the year, but have no fear, come mid –summer, in the sweltering heat of the office, our British penchant for whinging will take full effect. I guarantee there will be news stories about changing the laws for comfortable working temperatures and we’ll probably experience yet another set of hosepipe bans. My water butt is already half empty and there is still no sign of rain (for the moment).

Plenty of things have happened over the last few weeks. L had her first set if interviews for the next stage of her medical career. We were glad that she actually got an interview considering there were only 30 jobs for 273 applicants!! If you’ve been listening to the news you’ll know that the online new system for job applications in the NHS has caused mayhem. L and thousands of other young doctors have had their lives turned upside down and will not find out where their next job is until six weeks before it starts. This gives little time for house buying/selling, moving and settling! And to top it all off the online system accidentally made public every doctors personal details online - a serious breach of the Data Protection Act.

So far L has had two interviews on in Liverpool and the other in Newcastle. We are still waiting to hear if she’ll get another one in Sheffield but since the online saga, the system has been shut down so no doctors can check their details.

Liverpool put us off almost immediately. It was probably partly to do with the fact that we arrived around midnight after a 4.5 hour drive from London. After a good dose of poor-direction-induced-arguments and copious wrong turns, we arrived at a Travel Lodge in the dodgiest part of the city. Still fuming from the journey we were less than happy when we saw the state of the room. Very grungy and basic, the only benefit it offered was being within walking distance of the interviews.

The next day we woke up fully prepared for the greasy misery of a Little Chef breakfast but found that the only food place around was McDonald’s, 15 minutes down the road! With no other choice, we resigned to have a McBreakfast Bagel. At no point did the “meal” represent breakfast or bagel. It might as well have been a McMoldy Flip Flop garnished with Cardboard. We should have known this was a sign of things to come.

L arrived at the interview 5 minutes before the allocated time, smartly dressed in a new suit and a snazzy shirt that said “hey! I’m a professional but I also want you to think I’m a bit quirky”.

Thinking she’d be about an hour, I decided to make myself busy by, giving the car a wash and a hoover at the local garage. 40 minutes later, just as I was putting away the useless vaccum that didn’t suck so much as gently inhale dust motes, I had a text from L to say she still hadn’t gone in. Hmmm how to make myself busy? Perhaps I’ll go exploring…

2 and half hours later after I’d driven around some of the grungiest streets of Liverpool, read a newspaper, wondered around Albert Docks, briefly visited an exhibition and dozed for 20 minutes Lindsay called to say she was only just about to go in!!! I could feel my blood boiling and my anger was reflected in L’s voice. What kind of system was this?? And what was the point of Lindsay booking an interview slot when they couldn’t even stick to the schedule?
To top it off, they didn’t have the courtesy to give L a full interview, nor did they look at her portfolio so the whole thing was a complete waste of time. Boy were we glad to see the back of Liverpool.

By contrast, Newcastle was much better. We spent time with one of my friends and had a relaxing day walking in the Cheviot hills, rock balancing and enjoying the countryside and the nearby beaches. The interview itself was on time and, according to L, very thorough. We had a good feeling about it and I started fostering images of life in the North… well it will be some time yet before we know where we’ll be posted.

2nd May
Oh my god… today I discovered that one of the large supermarkets in the UK sells packets of dried apricots. This is not odd, I hear you say, but get this, they are individually wrapped!!!! Has this world gone completely packaging nuts???

Last weekend, my friend came to stay. She had been making digs about me refusing plastic bags everywhere I went. She couldn’t understand why I preferred my tomatoes and carrots rolling around in the basket instead of suffocated by a flimsy plastic bag that can’t even be reused as a bathroom bin bag! I wasn’t sure she’d really got my point but one lunch time I think she was finally swayed.

Our Dining place of choice was a well- known takeaway (or eat in) sandwich restaurant called Subway. Now, when I asked the lady not to give me a plastic bag because I was eating it in the restaurant, she said “you HAVE to have one! It the LAW”!! I was really mad… The sandwich was already mummified by metres of wax paper and the plastic bag was used for less than 30 seconds while I walked a yard from the counter to the table. Everyday they give away hundreds of these bags and they just end up in the bin or hanging from a tree or littering lay-bys!! Why don’t they use paper ones??? …Probably because it’s the LAW!

Anyway, that afternoon, I wrote them a stern email expressing my disgust! I haven’t had a response. Not surprisingly! But as my own little protest, I shan’t be going there again!

May 3rd
I have been earning some extra cash by opening and counting votes for the local elections. It sounds rather tedious but actually I had a good time. Apart from having a good old chit chat with some of my old workmates (from the local Council), I was intrigued by the process and was particularly impressed with the ergonomic letter opener. Ooops it somehow managed to find its way into my bag and all the way back to my house!

On the actual day of the elections we were lined up at long, classroom desks laid out boardroom style in a shabby, dark sports hall. We spent seven solid hours verifying votes from around the borough counting and re counting while the councillors peered over our shoulders and being awkward. “STOP, go back three….hmmm…. ok… carry on” as if we were incapable of counting accurately. They’d challenge tiny little pencil marks on the voting sheets and had arguments over whether a single line was classed as a vote! Adjudicators were hurrying to and fro tempering frayed emotions.

I was shocked more than ever to discover the large number of British National Party candidates. They lurked in the corner, talking amongst themselves, looking shifty and bigoted! Actually, most of them looked fairly normal i.e. there was only one skin- head and no one was brandishing the swastika… regardless, their mere presence made my blood curdle …………. they could have been puppy loving, granny caring environmentalists and I still couldn’t have brought myself to talk to them. I can’t believe there are still people in this world who harbour such hideous ideals and I’m sad to say that they actually managed to win an election in one of the local wards. I think it’s disgusting.

Anyway – on the bright side it was a little bit of extra cash…emphasis on little! I think they paid me incorrectly and they charged me tax which I’ll have to claim back because of my student status! Sheesh

14th May
L and I have just spent a fantastic weekend in Dorset in a fabulous old farmhouse on the outskirts of a quaint little village crammed with thatched cottages and surrounding areas that have names like the River Piddle, Puddletown and Durdledoor! The reason? To celebrate my soon-to-be-sister-in-law’s hen do!

Normally the idea of a hen do would put shivers down my spine…. tottering around some city all wearing pink leotards, sparkly tiaras and waving wands while the hen is forced to wear L plates and down as many shots as she can before throwing up and falling unconscious in the middle of the street. At which point she would be rushed to hospital to have her stomach pumped and all the other hens would be sitting in the waiting room for hours, developing hangovers, holding broken wands and looking slightly gothic because of the black streaks of mascara running down their faces. You might think I have a wild imagination but I’m sure it happens! Thankfully this weekend was nothing like that.

Organised by the bride-to-be’s (B2B) closest friends, the weekend was packed with fabulous food, entertainment, dancing, singing (mainly into salt and pepper shakers), a trip to the beach, very competitive games of twister and last but not least, a NAKED butler!

Unbeknownst to the other hens, the naked butler had been organised instead of a stripper… which we were, under no circumstances, allowed to book unless we wanted the B2B to sever all ties with us. Actually, I think the idea of a greased up stripper, thrusting his private parts around the place was a rather un-attractive prospect to most of the girls in our company.

But, I hear you say, the butler was naked! Well yes, he was…except for a strategically placed apron, some cuffs and a bow tie. When he first walked in to introduce himself and offer us canapés, the room fell deathly silent. The temperature rose several degrees with copious amounts of blushing.

Soon the nervous, school girl tittering subsided and was replaced by conversations about the well defined, yet pimply backside of the butler and orders to wash the dishes, mix cocktails to our tastes and pose for photographs. He politely declined to play a game of twister for obvious reasons, but was happy to regale us with stories of more riotous parties he’d attended. I think we were pretty sedate compared to his usual clientele – at no point did anyone try to grab his bum, or untie his apron, no matter how tempted they may have been.

So there are only a couple of weeks left before the big day. L and I have been practicing wearing our high heels. High heels are a new experience for us. We have been clomping around the house in a stiff, ungainly fashion not unlike an extra from Priscilla Queen of the Desert …. in fact a transvestite might do it better!

My mother is probably suffering from raised blood pressure as she worries unnecessarily about which of the three wedding outfits she’s bought will be best. My dad has been dragged on several marathon shopping sprees through every boutique, every department store and every dressmakers Geneva has to offer for a “back up” wedding outfit in case the other three aren’t suitable!

The wedding 26th May
I think I will gloss over this event except to say that it was a truly emotional time. It’s eye opening being part of a wedding and seeing it from the family’s point of view rather than as a guest.

All the ferreting, worrying and organising that goes hand in hand with ‘the best day of the couple’s life’ is exhausting. If you’ve never been part of the behind-the-scenes-action, I don’t think you can quite understand the build up of emotions which suddenly gush to the surface on the day.

My brother was overcome with emotion during his vows taking a good couple of tear-jerking minutes to re-compose himself. He cried so much that the registrar was compelled to ask whether he actually wanted to go through with the marriage.

Once we had all recovered from the ceremony, we were again moved to tears by the first dance. And so it goes on, tears, laughter, more tears, alcohol, more tears and the next day its all over. The bubble pops, the happy couple drive off into the sunset (the driving rain), hop on a plane to Italy and leave the rest of the family feeling slightly and somewhat bereft.

Now we must spend our time reminiscing and mulling over copious photos, dissecting people’s behaviour and choice of dress. Discussing who said what to whom, who argued, who left early, who outstayed their welcome and so on and so on. Next….we wait for news of a grandchild/neice or nephew at which point we can turn our conversations to appropriate children’s names, whether morning sickness is an issue, home births are preferable and the latest Lamaze class.

June 19th 2007
With university off for the summer and L cashing in on her last few days of annual leave, we are holidaying in the sunny county of Cornwall (three days of continuous rainfall so far). L has developed one of her holiday illnesses. Typically after several months of staving off all number of infectious diseases in hospital, the moment she has time to relax, she is consumed with bacteria and her white blood cells give up the ghost.

We are now surrounded by crusty, used tissues, empty packets of paracetemol, cough mixtures and homemade flu remedies. We’ve barely set foot outside the house and are slowly developing cabin fever (literally). I have read one and a half books in the last three days and am contemplating a trip to ASDA just for something to do. Oh the joys of the British Summer.

I must also mention that we are here with L parents so I’m on my best be-polite-and-charming-in-front-of-the-parents behaviour, which is also taking its toll. I have been told I’m a narcissist for pouring my thoughts and stories onto the web for everyone to view. Well, never mind at least someone is reading it and coming back for more.

Over the last two weeks we also dived straight into the challenging process of deciding where our next house is going to be. Things are on the move – the ball is rolling - after 7 years in one our little house and a good deal of itching for change. Why, well L has been offered and accepted a job for the next 6 years (thank god – we had started to discuss joint shifts at Sainsbury’s). I’m busy making arrangements for the house to be valued and choosing suitable upgrades in between worrying about dissertation subjects and what I’m going to do when I finish university. For the most part it is very exciting but it takes far too much time for my liking. Why can’t we just decide where we want to be, sell the house, get a mortgage, move the contents and settle in to a new place in the next month?

The worst of this has got to be the de-cluttering/de-personalisation of our house so that potential buyers aren’t put off by our… um…junk. Yes it can only be described as junk… mountains of knick knacks, useless kitchen utensils and tupperware, old books, boxes, cd’s, videos (who watches videos anymore?), half burnt candles, disused bags, shoes, moth-eaten clothes, broken electrical equipment, wadges of my old sketches, notes from university the first time round…my god… HOW HAVE WE ACCUMULATED SOOO MUCH!

Anyway, change is needed and I certainly have my work cut out for me over the summer. I need to find some paid work in Sainsbury’s or Marks & Spencers when what I’d really like to do is live a life of leisure and pray I win the lottery. Dribs and drabs of design work are floating in but I’m sure its not enough to keep the bills at bay – woe is me! I’m going to have to get back the real world.

THREE OOOOOH

Guess who's who? Oh how graceful!

I have a fan!! Well I’m assuming he’s a fan - yes he may be a friend, and yes he may spend far too much time on the computer, but when he asks why there hasn’t been an entry for 2 weeks then suggests I crack on with it, I think he officially becomes a fan, don’t you?

The problem is, I was not born a writer. This stuff doesn’t just splurge onto parchment from my feather quill - I have to wait for inspiration and sometimes it doesn’t hit for weeks on end even with the copious amounts of coffee and the thinking I do. Writing also requires a good deal of brain power of which I have very little to spare. And lastly, I have to live a life! But seeing as my fan base has chided me into writing something – and you know who you are - I suppose I should get on with things.

Hmmmm what to write about? Well it’s been three days since I hit the big THREE OOHHH. I found another wrinkle, L has been tweezing out some grey hairs (mine not hers) and my boobs have moved another notch closer to my kneecaps but all in all I still feel the same! I have however, started to spend way too much time considering the meaning of life? Why do we spend so much time working to pay the mortgage, raise the kids, buy snazzy cars and go on fancy holidays when life is over before you can blink? I know it’s a bit morbid but if, lets say, I live to 60 then…. I’m now officially MIDDLE AGED!!!!

In our relatively short lifespan, what contribution do we actually make to the world? We take much, much more than we actually give. We use more than our fair share of natural resources, destroy the existence of other living creatures by removing their habitats and killing off their food sources, we over fish, over farm and pollute the earth with allsorts of waste such as methane, C02, plastic, dead skin and god knows what else. Then, when we’ve taken all we want, we just up and die. “goodbye and thanks for all the fish” I’ll leave you to mull this over…

Now, on to something more light-hearted…. L took me to Crufts last week! For those of you who don’t live in the UK, Crufts is the biggest dog show in the world (is that right?). They have competitors from Europe to Japan with over 22,000 dogs shown over 4 or 5 days. Now, pretty much everyone I mentioned this to, rolled their eyes and pretended to be happy whilst secretly thinking “I can’t think of anything worse” and “POOR L”.

I have to say, when L gave me the tickets I was shocked, not because of the nice gesture but because it had to be her idea of HELL. I’m afraid I have an uncontrollable reaction to animals of any sort. Anyone who knows me well will vouch for this but on discovering something cute and fluffy, I can’t stop myself grabbing the closest person to me, pointing to the animal in question and saying “isn’t it CUUUUUTE” in a pitch which is best suited for dolphin communication. I don’t know why, but the words are out of my mouth before my brain can engage. I have often been left stroking a stranger’s puppy and cooing while L saunters on pretending not to know me.

So now you can understand why I was so shocked at the gift – In actual fact, the day turned out to be great fun. Even L seemed to have a good time. The venue was huge and sprawling - after 6 hours of traipsing around we couldn’t possibly have seen everything. L remained patient throughout even though I screeched and pointed for most of the morning. But by midday, after seeing up to 60 dogs of the same breed, when there were over 56 different breeds, even I couldn’t muster an “aaah how cute”.

We amused ourselves watching people brush and fuss their dogs. Some wore ribbons, others had bibs on to stop the drool ruining their hair dos. Collies were practicing their heel work, and Great Danes were looming over their owners but mostly they all looked worn out and fed up with being poked, prodded and mauled by the judges.

We joined the crowds to watch the agility heats and developed a new found respect for Poodles. Don’t knock ‘em, they may look poncey but boy they are masters of the agility course. We ‘Oohed’ and ‘Ahhed’ when the dogs did a round in a particularly fast time or got eliminated by jumping over all the wrong jumps in overwhelming excitement. I cried at the doggy dancing and laughed at the police dog antics. It was all thoroughly enjoyable. And for your perusal, here are just a couple of pictures:

above: Poncy Poodle "look at meeee"
not a great pick but it gives you the idea

above: This Dog is famous!! She was one of the
Corgis in the film The Queen!

above: with a face like that, is there a
reason for living?

above: some people prefer dogs that don't
require much looking after.

above: this bearded collie was one of the stars
in the film Holiday and some other movie I can't remember.
Watch the video to see what happened when he completed his round!

Over my Birthday Weekend, (this has since been extended to a Birthday Week) I was graced with the presence of BOTH my parents. It’s extremely rare to have a visit from Mum and Dad at the same time! So in preparation for their arrival, I spent two solid days cleaning frantically and chastising the bunny for moulting everywhere. I screamed at L for not doing her fair share, grumbled at the lack of space to hang washing out to dry, and had restless nights worrying about the sleeping arrangements.

By the time they arrived I was worn out and there was still bunny hair floating around! However, we had a lovely weekend filled with fine dining, walks, card games and a trip to the world’s smallest cinema. With 21 seats and barely enough room to sip your luke warm tea from a polystyrene cup, it couldn’t help but maintain the air of the seedy, peepshow room it once was.

Cinema aside, everything was good fun and the weather added to the occasion by being bright and sunny for the full three days. By the end of it, I was sad to see my parents go... that’s odd. Aren’t we supposed to sigh with relief when our parents leave?

Anyway, now that I have satisfied my one fan with another entry, I shall get back to sorting out my portfolio for an interview next week! Yes, some paid freelance work with a design agency no less. If all goes well I might be inspired to tell you about it. So until next time….

pedal power

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 5^th 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!

Student life and daytime television

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)

The Proof is in the Tail

I just thought I'd give you a real picture of "the Tail"... obviously we don't have Rosie anymore but I will hang on to this tail (perhaps put it on a keyring- not) and let her memory live on.

above: the two love-buns Flopsy (white) and Clive

Oh and here is a short video of Clive going bonkers while Flopsy tries to have a kip. Apologies to all you non animal lovers.

Mills & Boone, Bunnies and Tails

It had been a long treacherous drive. The temperature outside hovered around zero whilst snow flakes danced in the orange glow of the street lamp. She'd waited a long time to meet someone who could whisk her off her feet, someone who could make her heart whole. She turned to face him.

He was dark and handsome, small but perfectly formed. He had an air of nonchalance about him which unnerved her. She took a few paces back.

As he stepped towards her he could feel his pulse rise. She was beautiful! Her soft milky body sent shivers down his spine. He sensed she was afraid but reached for her anyway. Something stirred deep down in his soul.... he wanted her!

OK enough with the Mills and Boone - its RABBITS I'm on about here.

The last couple of weeks have been a roller coaster ride of bunny emotions and owner trauma. We've had Flopsy almost 8 months now and everything we read suggest that all rabbits should have companionship (preferably another rabbit). We do give her lots of attention but as much as we try, it's difficult to lick a rabbit's ear in quite the same way as another rabbit could. So we decided to get her a friend from the RSPCA.

On adoption day, L refused to come along for fear she would be tempted to rescue ALL the stray animals. Actually, I this was a cleverly constructed excuse to avoid being manipulated into adopting a puppy or a kitten at the same time. So, on my own, I stroked several abandoned rabbits in my quest to find Flops a suitable companion. I found RALPH!

The RSPCA are quite strict about adoption. I had to fill out reams of paper work and undergo a home check to ensure we were responsible owners. During the home visit, Flopsy presented herself well giving the inspector a look-at-me-I'm-so-adorable-and-I'm-obviously-well-looked-after pose. So thankfully, we passed the check with flying colours. The whole process took over a week by which time I was oozing with excitement about bringing Ralph home.

Well, we had Ralph for just over a week and I followed all the guidance about introducing them slowly. I had to keep them apart (via a cage) but allow them to be within close proximity so they could get used to the company. The house became a circus, juggling two rabbits to ensure both of them had plenty of run-around time. Flops was noticeably put out by the situation. She normally has the run of the house but during this time, she kept going off in huff, anywhere that was away from the little black furball.

After four days, there were still no signs of friendship- Flopsy scrabbled at Ralph's cage like a demon possessed and Ralph responded with similar aggression. The rabbit forums assured me "everything would be ok" and to "persist with the process". I was dubious, but knew it could take several weeks.

One day I left them alone in the kitchen, separated by a six foot wire frame. I'd been gone a couple of hours but on my return I noticed things didn't look right.

There were piles of fluff everywhere. When I inspected further, it was obvious an aggressive fight had occurred. One or the other had pulled the frame aside to create a hole just big enough for Ralph (quite small) to squeeze through (Flopsy, taking after her owners, is a little on the chunky side so could never make the great escape). Ralph had ventured into Flopsy's territory and suffered the consequences.

The scene resembled a post apocalyptic pillow fight, yet the two rabbits were in their respective areas looking fairly subdued. So, I set about cleaning up the mess and considered knitting a rabbit fur jumper from the remains. Then, to my horror, I found RALPH'S TAIL!!!! The WHOLE TAIL! RALPH WAS TAILLESS! not a rabbit's foot, A RABBIT's TAIL! small and black and fluffy - OH MY GOD! NOOOOOOO

Ralph was rushed to the Vet's to have the damage assessed - it was nothing short of horrid. His tail had been skinned and all that was left was a bloody stump which had to be amputated.

When I recovered from the news of the amputation, I was bowled over by two more bombshells a) the cost and b) RALPH was a GIRL- the RSPCA made a mistake!!!

No wonder they didn't get on. Every single piece of advice given to me before adopting our new rabbit included "don't put two females together". Poor Ralph/Rosie would had to spend the night at the vets and endure one week of oral antibiotics! Awwww poor little thing - as soon as she was better we took her back to the RSPCA.

Sad story isn't it, but have no fear everyone... three nights ago, Flopsy, L and I met a Bunny Rescue lady in a car park on the M1 (not by accident, the meeting was arranged). She brought two little boys, Clive and Dooley to meet Flops and under the cover of darkness, we bundled them into the back of her car and let Flopsy decide who she liked best.

Clive it was and since then its been a hassle free introduction. Contrary warnings about females becoming aggressive and territorial, Flops has been more than welcoming. I can just imagine her hopping around the house saying in a posh voice "now this is the living room where you can relax in front of the fire and munch on carrot whilst being groomed - just make yourself at home darling".

Clive is still settling in and is already litter trained but he has an unfortunate rabbit-lust for Flopsy. I think she was hoping for some gentle head licking and some warm snuggles but the little guy is mad for it! Apparently, according to the forums, he's just 'asserting' himself... For Flopsy's sake I hope he calms down - she is looking a little harassed and now sits cleverly with her rear end against a wall or other immovable object.

So people, you may not be rabbit lovers or should I say lovers of rabbits.... actually lets just say you might not appreciate rabbits as pets, so I apologise for this post. I must sound like a complete weirdo - probably worse than a dog lover - but I do think there's a moral to this story somewhere. Let me think... or maybe you could suggest one!

Ciao for now

Geeks and Consumerism

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"?