So, absolutely ages ago, the lovely Linda of Passionate Blog tagged me with the "Five Things" meme, and, despite the very best of intentions, I didn’t get round to doing it. That was before I was on deadline, though. Now I have something like 50,000 words to write in the next five minutes and, procrastination queen that I am, that makes now sound like a good time for a meme to me. Also, Shoegal has tagged me now, too, so without further ado, here are five things you (probably) didn’t know about me…
- I have a pathological fear of crustaceans.
Crabs, lobsters, certain types of shellfish – seriously, don’t even mention those suckers to me. Actually, as phobias go, crustaceans is a pretty easy one to have. I mean, if you’re going to have yourself a phobia, I would recommend crustaceans, mostly because it doesn’t interfere with your life too much. (Unless, of course, you work in a seafood restaurant or are a fisherman, in which case, sucks to be you if you have a phobia about crustaceans). The same could also be said of my phobia about beheading, really: pretty scary when you think about it, but probably unlikely to really affect your life, you know?
- My phobia of telephones, on the other hand?
Totally don’t recommend that one. Especially not if you’re a journalist, because seriously, who ever heard of a journalist who hates using the phone? (Answer: all of you, now!)
- I once interviewed Robin Cook, during his time as Foreign Secretary.
No, you didn’t see that one coming, did you? Needless to say, it was not a telephone interview.*
- I got 98% in my Higher English Exam, which was the 3rd highest mark in the country at the time.
No, you really WOULDN’T think it, would you? Please, no one take this as an invitation to go through this site and point out all the errors. It should be clear to us all by now that things have gone seriously downhill since I was 17 – in more ways than one.
- My first job was beneath the golden arches of McDonalds
I lasted two weeks. During that time I had the longest queues and the most irate customers McDonalds had ever known. They probably still talk about it to this day. Needless to say, customer service and I were not meant to be. Having said that, though, it was the uniforms that finished me off, really. I was prepared to work for Ronald McDonald – dammed if I was going to dress like him too.
* Or even an interesting interview, come to think of it. My top question: “What do you think of our paper’s toy appeal?” Shaking in his shoes he was at my hard-hitting style.
The stress? The total, mind bending, hair-tearing stress I’ve been under these past two weeks? No, it’s not any better, thanks for asking. Actually? It’s worse. Yes, worse. As well as the four horrendously-long newspaper features which IF I DON’T FINISH THEM BY MONDAY I WILL DIE, I also have another horrendously long article to write, plus a bunch of other stuff that’s too boring to go into here, but trust me, if you were me? You wouldn’t be happy either.
Some techniques I’ve formed to help me meet my deadlines:
1. Not drying my hair.
I’m still washing it obviously, because URGH, unwashed hair, but drying it? Not so much. It dries by itself eventually anyway, and if I get hypothermia and die? At least I won’t have to write that mind-bendingly boring article I said I’d do, eh?*
Time saved: ten precious minutes per day
2. Not getting dressed until midday
Because that yellow dressing gown is TOTALLY acceptable work wear where I come from.
3. When I do get dressed, always wearing the same outfit I wore the day before (with clean underwear natch).
Time saved: about 2 hours. Yes, I’m seriously indecisive…
4. Not eating anything that can’t be toasted.
Time saved: well, none, really. I only EVER eat food that can be toasted, you see…
5. Not blogging
What do you mean you hadn’t noticed? GOD.
6. Buying this.
I seriously think it’s the only thing that could save me right now…
* Joking. Sort of.
Number of words I have to write between now and February 5th: 7,400
Number of words I have actually written: 242
Number of hideously cheesy intros I have written: 1
Number of displacement activities engaged in: about 17
Number of hours spent setting up wedding gift registry: 5
Number of glasses of wine drunk: 0 – so far
Number of glasses of wine I intend to drink: who’s counting?
Gah.
Tagged journalism
I’m stressed. For reasons unknown to either of us (maybe we are just brilliant?), this month has been our best month ever, business-wise. Everything else-wise? Not so hot, really. The workload has been such that everything else has had to fall by the wayside. My house is filthy. My dog is unwalked. I’ve even been putting the laundry away UN-IRONED, people, and if you knew me, you’d know how very bad that is…
On Friday, as I snatched a spare five minutes to sweep the floors whilst simultaneously planning out an article IN MY HEAD, I had a thought. Yes, I sometimes get them. "You know what would be the very worst thing that could happen right now, barring death or serious illness?" I asked myself. "Why, a great big fat newspaper commission, for how would I find the time to do it?"
That afternoon, just as I was about to switch on the answer phone and drink a bottle of whiskey, the phone rang. Yes, it was a big fat newspaper commission, folks, HOW WILL I FIND THE TIME?!
I will find the time. I’ll just have to stop sleeping or something, but I will do it. And at least by the end of the week, Celebrity Big Brother will be over, which will give me some more time. Ah yes, Celebrity Big Brother, otherwise know as "the bane of my life right about now". You see, a couple of weeks ago, I decided to start a Big Brother Blog. "I will start a Big Brother blog!" I thought. "Because that won’t be time consuming at all!" How wrong I was.
Big-Blogger launched at the start of January. I did absolutely nothing to promote this blog, other than adding links in the sidebars of my existing blogs to let Google find it and index it. Well, Google did. While the traffic hasn’t been huge (at its best, it’s had about 500 uniques per day), the controversy it’s stirred up has been. To date, I’ve been accused of inciting violence against Jade Goody. I’ve been accused of "sloppy thinking" (well, duh!) and told that the only reason I spoke out against the bullies in the Big Brother house was because I want to "go along with the pack". I’ve had the traditional, "OMG, you call yourself a journalist but you made a TYPO!" comment. In the words of dear Mermaid (who was too scared to use her real name when she criticised me), it’s been "very odd".
That’s not to say that I haven’t enjoyed it, of course, because I have. It’s always surprising to see how strongly people can react to bloggers, though. It’s sometimes difficult to take a step back from the keyboard, repeating, "Do not take it personally, do not take it personally, do not take it personally". Sometimes I struggle with that, a bit. Coming from a newspaper background, it can be be "very odd" to put yourself into an arena where, when criticism comes, it comes instantly and vehemently. An arena where people delight in pointing out even the smallest typo (because, they, of course, are perfect people). It can be very, very odd.
Great, though. But odd.
So, how’s this for crappy customer service?
For the last week, the Next Directory have called us EVERY SINGLE DAY without fail. Every. Single. Day.
"Hello!" they’ll say. "Can we speak to Mrs McLoughlin, please!"
and "Get lost!" we’ll reply. "No one of that name here, now don’t phone us again!"
The message, though, it just hasn’t been getting through. Yesterday, when they called, and Terry asked them (politely) to please stop with the phone harassment? They hung up on him. Today? Why, today they took things to a whole new level of utter stupidity.
Today, you see, rather than being called by a real, live person, the Next Directory chose to have a machine call us. Yes, a machine! "Please. Call. The. Next. Directory," the machine said, robotically, before reading out a phone number veeeeeerrrryyyy slllloooowwwwlllly.
I called the number. I got another machine. "The. Next. Directory. Called. You. Today." said the new machine. "There. Is. No. Need. To. Call. Us."
Aaaargh! At this point my head actually exploded, so it was some time before I managed to find their customer service number (actually, this was mostly because this is a secret number, that Next do their damndest to keep hidden) and get a real person on the end of the phone. "How can I help you?" she asked. "Well, you can stop calling me every day in life, hanging up on me and then getting your evil machines to call me instead FOR NO REASON," I replied. She put me on hold. For over five minutes.
When the woman finally came back to me (and bear in mind I have nothing better to do with my time than sit and listen to hold music. Nothing at all.) she was all a-fluster, but she did promise they would stop calling me. I bet they won’t, though. I just bet they won’t. The moral of the story: it’s crap when machines start calling you, isn’t it? The purpose of this entry? To allow me to procrastinate and try to avoid the huge amount of work that’s threatening to kill me. Happy Friday, people!
 People, they have named a comet after me.
Wasn’t that nice of them?
Well, I’m still alive. Obviously. Alive, and also: feeling a little bit stupid right about now. Oh yes. Needless to say, the ear syringing was not painful (and nor did it involve the use of a syringe, either, come to think of it. It was a kind of plastic tube thing, a bit like a hoover, although what would I know? I was too afraid to even look at it.). It was not carried out by Mr T. (Which was actually a bit of a shame, because that would have made for a good blog entry. Unlike, say, this.) I did not faint dramatically afterwards, or even feel dizzy. Actually, it was all a bit of an anti-climax to be honest, but at least I can hear again. There’s a lesson here for all of us. I’ve no idea what it is, of course, but I’ll think on it.
In even better news, though, which I neglected to tell you about yesterday (I mean, I say this as if you all care…Just humour me, mmm’kay?) because of the whole, "wax in the ear, totally going to die" thing, I got my response from the Jury Service yesterday, and am pleased to confirm that I do not have to do jury duty. Yay! Go me!
I’m not sure which of the four arguments I used in my letter worked, but one of them sure did, so I’m keeping the letter on file so that I can re-send it next time they call me. For there will be a next time, friends, make no mistake about it: these Jury people have me firmly in their sights, and they’re not going to let me go without a fight. The form I had to send to them to ask to be excused contained the threat that, "EVEN IF WE LET YOU OFF THIS TIME, REST ASSURED THAT WE WILL TRY TO DESTROY YOUR LIVELIHOOD AGAIN SOMETIME WITHIN THE NEXT TWELVE MONTHS", which is pretty annoying, really. I suspect I’m now going to have to spend the rest of my life fighting off the attempts of the court service to get me onto a jury: stupid really, because as I explained in my letter, if they knew me, they really wouldn’t want me on a jury anyway.
So, that’s pretty much been my week. Even although I still have a mountain of work outstanding, I’m going to down tools now and spend the weekend lolling in bed like a rag doll, getting out only to drink wine and buy shoes on the Internet. Can’t wait.
God, has it really been a week since I updated here? Is this thing on?
Yes, it’s been a while folks, but don’t worry, I’m not updating now without a good excuse for my laziness. In fact, I have two!
Excuse Number 1: Work
Yes, that old chestnut. For reasons best known to themselves, everyone wants a piece of me this month. Why? No idea, but it’s actually starting to wear pretty thin, especially given that I spent most of my Christmas “break” feeling sick as a dog, and therefore didn’t actually get much of a break at all. Not that I’m bitter, of course, oh HELL no: I mean, I thoroughly enjoyed feeling like hell as everyone else celebrated around me. LOVED IT. Gah.
Excuse Number 2: Ill! Again! But a different kind of ill this time! Exciting!
No, I haven’t had the cold again, although, actually? That might have been more fun. No, the thing that’s been ailing me has been far worse than that, and it’s mighty embarrassing to have to say this, so I’m just going to come right out with it: it was earwax. Yes, earwax. Other people get to have interesting illnesses, that allow them to lie, pale but beautiful, on a chaise longe somewhere, being fed big, juicy grapes and reading trashy novels. Me? I get freakin’ earwax. GOD.
So yes, my poor old left ear has been through the mill this week. People, I have tried everything to dislodge the waxy build up (I know it’s embarrassing to read this, but trust me, it’s even more embarrassing to have to write it. In fact, I have no idea why I’m doing it.), and by “everything” I mean, “yes, I know you’re not supposed to mess around with your ears but YOU try being totally deaf in one of them for days on end and let’s see how YOU cope, eh?” And also: I was desperate.
Nothing worked. The Olbas oil did not work. The special eardrops Terry bought me did not work (although they did provide a not-unpleasant fizzing sensation in my ear, so I kept on using them). The great big wad o’chewing gum in the left side of my jaw sort of worked, but then I chewed so much that my jaw got sore and kind of froze, and I got sores on the inside of my mouth, which is totally the kind of thing that could only happen to me. Finally, last night while we were watching Celebrity Big Brother, Rubin snuck into the bedroom and stole my eardrops from my bedside table, having first taught himself how to jump onto the bed. Then he destroyed them.
That was the end of the eardrops (although Rubin’s ears are as clean as a whistle now), so this afternoon, and with very great reluctance, I dragged myself off to the doctor to have the ear syringed – or rather, Terry dragged me there because I? Was terrified. Why was I terrified? Well, as you know, I am a hypochondriac. The last time I went to the doctor, I almost forgot my own name. Every time I go there, I convince myself they’re going to take one look at me and say, “OMG, you have cancer! You have only two minutes left to live!” This is why I chose to fart around with eardrops rather than seeing the doctor a week ago. Also: on Monday we went to see Terry’s mum, and told her of my plight. “Oh, I had my ears syringed not long ago!” said Terry’s mum, cheerfully. “It was so excruciating I was screaming in pain! Would you like something to eat now?”
So, to say I was scared as I sat there in the waiting room would be something of an understatement.
“Terry? I am scared,” I told Terry, who had a brought a book with him so that he wouldn’t have to listen to my whining. (And who was there because I was convinced that the excruciating pain would render me unable to drive myself home).
“Don’t worry babe, you’re just a nutjob,” said Terry, comfortingly.
“I’m not a nutjob: I’m a nutjob with a wax-clogged ear!” I pointed out, forgetting for the moment that although I may be deaf, everyone else in the waiting room could hear perfectly well, and now they all knew about my wax-clogged status. Just as you all do now, Internet! Doh!
Luckily, I didn’t have long to wait. The doctor took me into her office and peered with a light into my ear. “Yes, you have a HUGE amount of wax in there,” she told me helpfully. I could swear she also said a sentence which featured the word “cancer”, but my ear was pretty blocked so I can’t be sure. I’m going to worry about it anyway.
 She didn’t do anything about the wax, of course. No, that’s a job for someone else, apparently: I’m picturing a big beefcake person, a bit like Mr T, who will show up with a huge ice-pick like thing and lever the wax out with it, GOD. It’s happening tomorrow at 11.50am. Think of me then, Internet. Think of me, and maybe make a donation to the RNID in my name or something.
2007? You suck.
So, today I spent over £800 in less than an hour. And how are you, today?
Here’s what I bought:
That? Oh, that’s just the private-pool-with-sea-view at the villa we have booked for our honeymoon (or, OK, a small corner of the pool, and you can’t really see it very well anyway, but I didn’t take the picture, OK? GOD.). Yes, we have BOOKED OUR HONEYMOON, people, although, actually? The villa booking hasn’t been confirmed yet, so here is what our £800 + actually paid for today:
(Note: we didn’t buy the full plane. Just two seats on it. Gosh, I hope no one dies mid-flight, a la Erin’s flight to Australia. I mean, these things scare me enough without the on-board death and destruction…)
Anyway, the villa is in a little village on Lanzarote. I know, I know: we were all, "We will totally have the holiday of a lifetime and go somewhere far-flung and exotic for our honeymoon!" but then we stupidly decided to get married right before Easter, when it costs TWICE AS MUCH TO TRAVEL AS ANY OTHER TIME OF YEAR. Gah. Lanzarote may not be the most exciting place in the world (and we’ve been there before), but it is at least cheap, hot, and as we haven’t had a proper holiday since 2003 now, we’ll probably just collapse on that there patio (WITH SEA VIEW!) and remain there, like the old wrecks we are, anyway. We’re flying out the day after the wedding (April 1st. Because only we would fly on April Fool’s Day.), which will surely make for some fun times as we try and organise ourselves!
So, now that the booking of villa and hire car has been done, certain other questions need to be addressed:
- What will I wear?
- When will the Spring/Summer collections start coming into the shops?
- Will I do the fake tan for the wedding after all? Because I was totally going to be pale and interesting for the ceremony, but I’ll need to be tanned and not-so-interesting for the honeymoon (or I will frighten small children, who will be able to use my pale skin to light their way at night), and we leave the afternoon after the wedding. What to do?!
- Who will come to the wedding?
- Will ANYONE come to the wedding?
- Hey, we should really think about inviting people to the wedding, shouldn’t we?
- Do Matalan still have those cow-print suitcases on sale, I wonder, because neither of our cases made it back in one piece from Vegas that time (thanks, Chicago O’Hare! Screw you, too!)
- Can we afford this?
- OHMYGODIDON’TTHINKWECANAFFORDTHIS!
- What IS that giant silver thing in the garden of Nigel, the International Man of Mystery Next Door?
These questions, and others, will be answered soon. Or, you know, maybe not.
So, here’s what 2007 looks like so far:
Top- bottom: Our garden, the garden of the house behind us. Also pictured: weird silver metal thing that looks like it maybe fell from a passing spaceship, spotted in the garden of the man next door. (Note: much more enormous in real life. The silver thing, that is, not the man next door)
Wow, 2007, nice work! Nothing like announcing your arrival, eh? I mean, I know I’m all about the drama, but when you showed up at the party, 2007, everyone stopped to look. It’s a good job we’re not superstitious, in a "the year will totally continue the way it started, with death and destruction a-plenty" kinda way, no?
After spending the first part of our evening watching our garden be comprehensively ripped apart, we repaired to Terry’s mum’s house for what we in Scotland call "The Bells" ("The Bells! The Bells!") and what you in the rest of the world probably call (just as accurately, but slightly less dramatically) "midnight". Five minutes before these bells (Bells! Bells!), Jackie Bird, who the BBC roll out every New Year to guide us through the "celebrations", beamingly informed us that now was "the moment we had all been waiting for!" We all dutifully gathered around the TV in no small excitement, but it turned out to be just more of that stupid-ass fiddle music we always get lumbered with on New Year’s Eve (enlivened for us this year by an energetic display of some ballet/jazz/Irish dance fusion by our little niece Maria. This will come in handy should things start to flag at the wedding, methinks).
As the bells (The bells! The bells!) tolled, we were treated to the usual display of fireworks from Edinburgh Castle, although as the street party was cancelled this year it turned out that what we were actually seeing was the fireworks display from last year, in a bizarre kind of "here’s some we prepared earlier" moment. (Or, who knows, it could have been the fireworks display from 1992 for all we know – I mean, they’re basically all the same, aren’t they? Maybe they’ve been showing us old footage for years now, as part of some cost-cutting exercise?) We switched the TV off soon after that because it got too depressing, but what we did manage to catch seemed to be the usual "fey looking young woman singing some Celtic-sounding dirge" thing that the BBC foist on us every year in the misguided belief that we’d all prefer to bring in the New Year in abject misery, thanks very much. (One year a visitor from England asked my parents in astonishment why they were playing "modern music" at their New Year’s Eve celebration, and not gathering round the hearth to play the bagpipes and sing "guid auld songs" about the Battle of Culloden and all that. My parents, of course, smacked the visitor up the side of the head* and pointed out that time marches on just as relentlessly in Scotland as it does in the rest of the world, and also: we’re not mad, you know. Why, we’ve had horseless carriages for years now, years I tells ya. It’s just a shame that the BBC has so far failed to realise this.)
Anyway. Terry is now busy giving Rubin his New Year’s bath (we do actually bath him more than once a year, though, before you report us to the RSPCA or something): once I have been similarly bathed (although not that similarly, obviously. I mean, Terry won’t be doing the honours, for instance) we’ll be heading to my parents’ house to make sure it’s still standing have dinner and also: drink wine. And thus will end a total of four days of non-stop** partying for us, for yes, folks, we have attended four parties in four days now, which makes us sound very busy and popular, but actually, we’re just mad.
* Not strictly true
** Actually, we did stop fairly often
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