It’s Halloween, folks, which means it’s time to get out this (very scary) picture of Rubin:
And, with that out of the way, it’s time for me to reveal that I freaking hate Halloween. I know, I know – shocking, isn’t it? But I just don’t get it. Sure, I can see how it would be fun if you were a child, or if you were going to a party of some kind (any excuse for a party is a good one in my book), but all you adults who are practically wetting yourselves with excitement at the prospect of Halloween? I just don’t understand you. And also? I’m glad you don’t live in my street, because we don’t give candy to adults. Oh hell, no. In fact, we don’t give candy to kids either, and that’s because there IS NO CANDY. I ate it. Sorry.
Now, I know you’re all probably shrieking in disbelief at the screen right now and exclaiming about how it’s the BEST! HOLIDAY! EVER! and how you’re SO! EXCITED! but I just don’t understand why. You see, to my mind Halloween is, at best, a bit of a half-assed "celebration", and, at worst, downright dangerous.
I mean, if you were to read any of the UK tabloids (not generally recommended, although it can be good for a laugh), you would know that pretty much every second person in the country right now is a paeodophile – sorry, a "FILTHY PAEDO SCUM!". All year, parents work hard to protect their children from danger. Hell, in some schools in our area, you’re not even allowed to take pictures at your kid’s Christmas Nativity Play, because some other parent might object on the grounds that you, yourself, could be a paeodophile. So, all year we tell our children not to talk to strangers, and then, on October 31st, we send them out into the night with the instruction to go knock on strangers’ doors and beg for candy. Seriously, what’s that about? Does "stranger danger" stop existing just because it’s Halloween or something?
Now, to be fair, not all parents are like this. Some actually accompany their children to the strangers’ doors, and while I still think it’s a little odd to teach your kids that it’s OK to beg strangers for candy (and threaten them with Bad Things if they don’t cough up), I guess there’s no arguing with that. But what the hell, I’ll argue with it anyway…
See, here in Scotland, the tradition used to be that, as well as dressing up, trick or treaters would have to actually do something to earn their candy. (This was all fields then.) So, they’d knock on the door, then they’d have to tell a joke, or sing a song or… generally they’d just tell a joke or sing a song. Now? Nothing. They just ring the doorbell and then stand there with their hands out. In fact, some of the little beggars (and I use that word in its truest sense) aren’t even dressed up. Some of them, aren’t even children, really: they’re teenagers who wait until all the little kids have gone to bed, then come round and expect you to give them money – just because it’s Halloween and they’re standing on your doorstep.
I’m really glad I already ate all the candy.
I swear to God the humble telephone will be the death of me, one of these fine days, it really will.
For the past few months, Terry and I have been getting the odd "funny" phone call, only they’ve been not so much "funny" as they’ve been just plain "odd". And also: annoying. Really freaking annoying.
You see, these phone calls come in the middle of the night, or in the early hours of the morning, whichever way you want to look at it. The caller’s preferred time is 2:20am, but this week he/she/it has broken out a bit, so on Monday morning we were called at 6:30am, and this morning we got The Call at 4:30am.
Now, as you all probably know, phone calls in the middle of the night = someone is dead, so, needless to say, these calls haven’t gone down well around these here parts, especially given that when we answer them THERE IS NO ONE THERE. (Actually, we’re just assuming there’s no one there. There was no one there the couple of times Terry managed to get to the phone before it rung off. Now he mostly just fumbles around on the bedside table while I shout "OH MY GOD, SOMEONE IS DEAD!" at him. Then the phone stops ringing and we are none the wiser as to whether there was anyone there or not. But there wasn’t, trust me).
So, in most cases, phone calls with no one on the end of them would mean one of three things:
- Total Assholes Management are on the case again, GOD.
- Some other intellectually-challenged individual is… I believe the expression is "playing silly buggers" with us.
- Um, ghosts are phoning us? From the Netherworld? Maybe?
We know for certain that it isn’t numbers one or two (Number three we’re not so sure about, but given that I only just thought of that, and will probably be able to totally freak myself out if I think about it any more, let’s just discount that one for the time being, too.) and the reason we know this is that whoever is calling us isn’t bothering to block their number before hitting "dial". So, basically, every time they call us, all we have to do is dial 1471 (which is the equivalent of *69 if you’re in the States and wondering what the hell I’m talking about now), and we get their number, which is (just in case you actually care, or are also being stalked by this Phantom Phoner) is 01142838829.
It’s a Sheffield number, but that’s really all we know about it at the moment because there’s no record of it on the Internet, and Reverse Lookup is illegal in the UK, so there’s no way of getting an address from a telephone number. We’ve tried calling it back, obviously – lots and lots of times, at all hours of the day and night – and it either rings out or is constantly engaged. Once, when the Phantom Phoner woke us at 2:30am and I couldn’t get back to sleep, I took the phone into bed with me and just kept hitting "redial", but it was engaged all night. Oh, lots of fun we’ve had with this one, let me tell you!
So far, in our quest to put a stop to the Phantom Phoner we have:
- Called our telephone provider, who said there was absolutely nothing they could do to help
- Reported the number to Ofcom, who said it was all very interesting, thanks, but that they can’t help with individual cases and can only monitor levels of complaints.
- Reported the number to the Telephone Preference Service, which we’re members of. I’m not quite sure why we’re members of the TPS, though, because it doesn’t stop Total Assholes Management, and it seems there’s nothing they can do about the Phantom Phoner, either.
- Contacted the police. They said there was nothing they could do as there is "no evidence of criminal intent". The fact that it’s a criminal act – i.e. harassment – seemed to go right over their heads. They told us to contact our telephone provider. Who, the second time we called them… told us to contact the police. D’oh.
- Complained to the Information Commissioner. At last, we start to get somewhere! The ICO say that, yes, they are the correct people to contact with problems of this nature! But that we will have to print out a bunch of forms, fill them in, post them back and wait up to a month for a response. And in the meantime? Keep on being woken up at 2am, I guess.
To be honest, we’re pretty sure it’s an automatic dialler – some kind of telemarketing company with a dialler that’s malfunctioning and calling us in the middle of the night every so often. If there was any malicious intent – even just to annoy us – I can’t imagine that the person would be so stupid as to not block their phone number before calling (although, come to think of it, I do see stupid people…), and the fact that the number in question is always either constantly engaged or ringing out makes us think it’s an office of some kind.
What do we do about it, though? Well, er, nothing for the moment, apparently. But one more call from The Phantom of the Phone Dialler and it looks like the police will be hearing from us again…
Do you know how many blog posts I wrote on Friday?
Thirty nine, that’s how many. Thirty. Nine. 3-9. Thirty freaking nine blog posts, hanging on the wall.
So, yeah, I guess you could say I’m feeling a leetle bit burned out, and by that I mean, "Oh my holy God, if I even have to look at another Moveable Type/Typepad window I’m going to kill someone — or at least throw the laptop out of the window."
But I do have to. Because I’m busy. And also because, well, that’s my job, people. But my job involves writing a certain amount of posts every week, and in order to be able to fit in all of my other work around that, I’ve been having to try and write a whole bunch of those posts in advance, at the end of the week – hence the Friday of Thirty Nine Posts, which was followed by the Weekend of Lying on My Bed Like a Burned Out Rag Doll, and, of course, the fact that there have been no posts at this here blawg for quite some time now.
Yes, all of the above is my long-winded way of saying that, whoops! I haven’t had time to write anything. Or not here, anyway. Sorry. I must do better. First, though, I must go and lie on my bed like a rag doll again, and prepare for tomorrows blog-fest. It’s a long, long time until the weekend…*
* Actually, it’s five days, but, y’know…
I am done with the pool. No, that didn’t take long, did it? And actually, to be fair, it’s not so much the pool I’m done with so much as it’s The Others:
Yes, The Others have troubled me for the very last time – or I hope so, anyway – but they have gone out with a bang, driving me from the pool this afternoon after a mere 15 lengths. Bravo, Others!
See, I was swimming in the super-wide “only really for children and old people” lane. When I arrived, there was only one other person in it. By the time I left, there were five of us, all swimming en masse, and bumping into each other like tadpoles in a jar. Every time I reached the end of the pool and turned round to come back, another person would emerge from the changing room and slide into my lane. The water was so choppy from all of the frantic activity that it was like swimming on a storm-tossed sea, only with Others all around you. So no, not the most pleasant swim I’ve ever had in my life.
In the “fast lane”, which is really only wide enough for one person, there were two Others: one powering up and down at a rate of knots, and the other just floating gently on his back, because he was That Guy Who Wears a Nose Plug Just to Float Around Like a Dead Person.
In the middle lane, meanwhile? Was The Whistler.
I swam for as long as I could stand it, but when I noticed a sixth person beginning to insert himself, sardine-like, into the pool, I decided to get the hell out of Dodge and go and soak in the jacuzzi instead.
Unfortunately, The Whistler decided to come with me.
I went to the poolside showers to wash the chlorine off first, and in the time it took me to get there, The Whistler had made it to the jacuzzi. “PEEP!” he said as I pressed the button to switch on the shower. And “PEEP!” he said again as I turned the shower back off, grabbed my towel and beat my retreat.
I got dressed and went to sit in the lounge to wait for Terry. Before I sat down, though, I wandered over to the window overlooking the pool and looked in. THE POOL WAS EMPTY. EMPTY. When Terry went in, just a few minutes later, he had the whole pool to himself. Gah. Freakin’ Others.
Anyway, clearly this state of affairs cannot continue. With the pool now established as the private domain of The Others (Leader: The Whistler), I’m going to have to venture into the gym itself. GOD. If anyone would like to start placing bets on how long this will last, just let me know. I’m determined it’ll last at least a week, though, so to this end, I went shopping this afternoon to buy gym clothes, on account of I gave all my old gym clothes to the charity shop, thinking I would never need them again. This leaves me with absolutely nothing I can wear to the gym, other than an ancient pair of yoga pants which I bought when I was about 20 and some running shoes Terry bought me five years ago.
Things I Do Not Own:
- Jogging pants
- A hoodie
- Any shorts that are designed for function rather than fashion
- Any t-shirts that are designed for function rather than fashion
- Ummm, what else do people wear to exercise in?!
Things I Have No Particular Wish To Own:
So, I hit the shops and bought these:
And also: a really nice little cashmere blend cardigan with a little bow at the neck, which will be absolutely no use at the gym whatsoever.
So! Ancient pair of yoga pants and old white trainers it is then! I did try to find gym clothes. The problem was that I’m a skinny short ass, so all the pants were way too long and all the tops were way too baggy, and also: I have no idea what people wear to the gym. What do people wear to the gym? Do they wear leggings? Or do they wear… something else? Help me out here, people: what do you wear to the gym?
Tagged the gym, the others, whistlers
I have absolutely nothing to say for myself at the moment, so, instead of a proper entry, here’s the next installment of my occasional series of "Embarrassing Photos of Me as a Child". I call this one, "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man":
Oh, I’ve come a long way, baby. You see, although I was to grow up to edit a website about shoes and own more makeup than Sephora (actually, come to think of it, I more or less own Sephora’s makeup. All of it.), what most people don’t know about me is that I started life as a tomboy. In fact, when my friend Ed saw this picture (on my 21st birthday, when my parents blew it up to giant proportions and taped it to the door of my bedroom at University, no less), he looked at it for a few long minutes before saying, "Yes, you were a nice little boy, weren’t you?" And you know what? I totally was. I was a PROPER boy. I was always dirty. I was always on my bike. I would sometimes frighten little sissy girls by pretending to be the Incredible Hulk. I liked to collect worms…
Actually, no, that’s not quite true. I didn’t collect worms – I just used to "rescue" them. You know how when it rains, all the worms come up out of the earth and you sometimes find them on the path, dying? I was their Avenging Angel. I used to rescue them, and by "I used to rescue them" I mean "I used to pick them up, put them in my jacket pocket or in the little box which sat on the back of my bike, and then forget about them." The poor worms. My poor parents, who would unsuspectingly put my jacket in the wash and… well, you know.
This picture was taken at what was probably the height of my tomboy phase. As you can see, I look dirty, tousled, and as if I’ve just been in a fight. Which I probably had. The swing was not mine: it belonged to the kids next door, who were the type of kids who weren’t allowed to play with their dolls in case they got them dirty, and who almost certainly wouldn’t have been allowed on the swing in case it messed up their hair or something. Clearly I had no such concerns. They were always clean and perfect, and actually, come to think of it, God knows how they were ever allowed to associate with the likes of me. In fact, they probably weren’t. I probably broke in to use the swing and decapitate their Barbies or something.
Anyway, the man of the house next door liked to go fishing, so one day as I was out "rescuing" some worms, an idea came to me. I went to the house next door and rang the doorbell. When the lady of the house opened it and smiled down at me, I gave her my most charming smile in return, and told her I had brought a present for her husband – something that he could use on his fishing trips. "Oh, isn’t that nice!" she exclaimed, holding out her hand and closing her eyes as instructed. You can probably see where I’m going with this…
Yes, into the open hand of The Lady Next Door, I placed…. a handful of wriggling worms, sill covered in the mud I had just pulled them from. I meant well, my mum explained later, once the lady had been revived and the worms were back where they belonged (in my jacket pocket). I though the Man of the House might like to use my worm friends as bait. I meant no harm. (Other than to the worms, obviously). The apology was accepted. The worms lived to fight another day. Well, probably not, actually, but let’s just pretend they did.
I don’t know why, though, but when I think about it now, I like to think I did it deliberately…
(I won’t forget when Peter Pan came to my house, took my hand
I said I was a boy; I’m glad he didn’t check.
I learned to fly, I learned to fight
I lived a whole life in one night
We saved each other’s lives out on the pirate’s deck.
And I remember that night
When I’m leaving a late night with some friends
And I hear somebody tell me it’s not safe,
someone should help me
I need to find a nice man to walk me home.
When I was a boy, I scared the pants off of my mom,
Climbed what I could climb upon
And I don’t know how I survived,
I guess I knew the tricks that all boys knew.
And you can walk me home, but I was a boy, too.
I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike
Riding topless, yeah, I never cared who saw.
My neighbor came outside to say, "Get your shirt,"
I said "No way, it’s the last time I’m not breaking any law."
And now I’m in this clothing store, and the signs say less is more
More that’s tight means more to see, more for them, not more for me
That can’t help me climb a tree in ten seconds flat
When I was a boy, See that picture? That was me
Grass-stained shirt and dusty knees
And I know things have gotta change,
They got pills to sell, they’ve got implants to put in,
they’ve got implants to remove
But I am not forgetting…that I was a boy too
~ Dar Williams, When I Was a Boy )
The more observant of you will no doubt have noticed that I haven’t been doing the Friday 5, other than those two times when I’d just started doing it and was all about answering questions about myself. Well, two weeks ago the questions were pretty lame ("Of the people in your life, who has the dreamiest eyes?" Er, who cares?), then last Friday I had that brain tumour, and then today I find that I’m not actually clever enough to answer the questions (Sample question: "What would be a good collective name for your family?" Umm, The McNaughts? Maybe?). So I’m not going to do it. Instead, let’s talk about the gym again. Oh come on, you know you love it…
So, as of today I am three steps closer to getting that precious, precious free towel. (Quick recap: you go to the gym thirteen times in your first month of membership, you get a free towel. I’ve actually been four times this week – GO ME! – but I forgot my membership card the first time, so it doesn’t count, apparently.) To be completely honest with you, as far as motivational "prizes" go, I don’t think a towel is a very good one. I mean, not to boast, but I actually already have a towel. And, you know, if I really wanted another one… I could buy one. But hey, a towel is what they’re offering and I WILL GET THAT TOWEL. Just not today, because I’ve got too much work to do to go to the gym today.
Towels aside, the gym-going has been fine, even although the behaviour of The Others continues to amaze and perplex me. Take yesterday’s visit, for instance. Yesterday, I went for a swim. I had only swam a couple of lengths when I noticed a man appear at the poolside. He was dressed like some kind of pro-swimmer: trunks, goggles, bathing cap – even earplugs and one of those nose plug things that divers wear. I was so sure he was going to get into the "Fast Lane", which was the one next to mine (I was in the "Slow Lane", natch) and plough up and down like a madman that I even moved over a bit, so that his froth wouldn’t reach me.
But no. My friend with the nose plug got into the super-wide lane (The "Extra Slow Lane") instead, and spent 40 minutes doing nothing more taxing than floating up and down the pool on his back, occasionally making little fluttering movements with his hands to prevent himself from coming to a complete stop. WHY? I mean, fair enough if that’s what he wanted to do: I’m partial to a bit of floatin’ myself, and maybe the dude had an injury or something, but WHY THE PRO-SWIMMER CLOTHES? It was almost all I could do not to nudge him and ask him why the hell he was dressed like that to float on his back. I mean, it was like the aquatic equivalent of me wearing crampons and hiring a sherpa just to walk the dog around the block. WHY? I was doing something like three lengths to his one, and given that I swim so slowly that it sometimes makes time stop and start going backwards, that’s saying something.
Also: the sun loungers that are around the pool. What are they there for? The pool is an indoor one: there is no sun. And yet, three out of the four times I’ve been there, two young men (not the same ones each time, but always young men) have emerged from the changing rooms, laid themselves down on these sun loungers and then stayed there for quite some time. Again: WHY? Why would you come to the gym just to lie on a sun lounger in a room where there is no sun, and it’s not even that warm? If they just want to relax and chat, there’s a spa pool, a sauna, a steam room and a restaurant. Why the no-sun sun loungers? Maybe it’s important to them to relax and chat IN THEIR SWIM SHORTS? Maybe those loungers are the only places it’s acceptable for young men to do that. Who knows?
Still, at least The Whistler hasn’t been back. Yet.
Oh, and for the benefit of those of you who are only here to find out how the whole Total Assholes Management thing worked out, I’ll tell you… after this from our sponsors!
Nah, I’m just kidding. They called twice yesterday, and although they hung up on Terry the first time, the second caller seemed slightly more sensible than the first, and I managed to keep him talking for a few minutes. It went like this:
T.A.M: Hello! I am Mike and I am calling you from…
ME: [in unison with him]: Total Asset Management! You want to send me an information pack! And when I tell you I don’t want it and that you called me seven times yesterday, you’ll put the phone down on me, won’t you?
T.A.M: Oh. Okay then, I will.
Me: That’s not an instruction, by the way.
T.A.M. Yes, I am understanding your instruction. I am putting down with the phone…
Me: No you’re freaking not….
And thus it went on, with him protesting his innocence ("This is being the first call I have been making today, it could not have been me, Mike, who is calling you…") and me explaining, at length, how we now considered the behavior of Total Assholes Management to be harassment, and that we would report it as such it they ever called us again. Weirdly, he agreed to give me the company’s address and a phone number (he says it’s a phone number, anyway. Doesn’t look like one to me, but they are based in India). Even more weirdly, we haven’t heard from them since. Amber – 1, Total Assholes Management – 0. So the week hasn’t been totally wasted.
Once again I find myself wondering just why the hell it is that phones don’t come complete with an "exterminate" button. It would make my life so much easier, and also: more fun!
A "company" (I use that word in its loosest term, because they don’t have a website and if I look them up on Companies House, I just bet they won’t be there) calling themselves Total Asset Management (Henceforth: Total Assholes Management) are harassing me. And Terry, in fact. Every day they call me, asking if I’d like to receive their information pack on Asshole Management, which is a field in which they claim some considerable expertise. I am not even a little bit surprised.
Every day I tell them that no, I do not want to receive their information pack, and that, actually, we’re with the Telephone Preference Service, which means that they’re not allowed to be calling us. Every day, they apologize, promise never to call again, hang up and… less than one minute later, they call back and ask to speak to Terry.
AAARRRRRGH!
Every day, as soon as this little pantomime is over, Terry and I shake our heads like the wise old owls we’re not, tell ourselves that really, we should report these people to the Telephone Preference Service, or… someone… and then do absolutely nothing about it, partly because we are lazy, but partly because the calls are obviously coming from abroad (the callers are always speaking heavily-accented pidgin English, and have difficulty pronouncing their own, very English-sounding, names and the number always comes up as "unavailable") so there’s probably not much the TPS could do about it, anyway.
Today, though, they have gone too far, for today Total Assholes Management have called me no less than SEVEN TIMES. Seven. Times. The first call came this morning, and was from a woman with an Indian accent who introduced herself as "Clara MacDonald" (a common name in that part of the world, I believe. Weird how she couldn’t quite pronounce it, though!). Before she had even got started on her spiel, I interrupted and explained to her that her company has been calling me every day, and that I’d like it to stop now, please, so could she remove me from her dialer. She apologised, said she’d never call again, and then, the requisite sixty seconds, she was back on the phone.
"Hello!" she said brightly, if indistinctly. "It is … Clara… Macd…Mac…Donald…from Total Assholes Management! I would like to speak to Mr Terry Mia… oh! Oooooh! Ooooh noooo!"
Then she hung up.
Now, if there’s one thing I hate more than people interrupting my (important!) work to try and sell me something, it’s someone who interrupts my work just so they can hang up on me. My blood boiled, but I had to content myself with ranting about it to Terry, who had been in the shower at the time, and had missed the (complete lack of) fun. Luckily for me, though (because I like a bit of drama), they called back this afternoon.
This time my caller was "Mike Smith", also of Total Assholes Management. I explained to Mike that his company had already called twice today, and asked to speak to his manager. So he hung up on me. Then he called back and asked to speak to Terry, who was at the gym. (Notice how I am NOT at the gym). Then he hung up on me when he realised that – whoops! – it was me again!
Ten minutes later, the phone rang again. This time it was "Nick Seargeant" of… can you guess? Yes! He was calling from Total Assholes Management! And he hung up on me before I could say anything more than "Can I take your phone numb…." Then he called back for Terry. And hung up! Again!
As I sit here writing this, the phone has just rung again. This time, there was no one there, but the number was "unavailable" and I’m willing to bet all I have (no one take me up on this) that it was my old pals from Total Assholes Management. I’d quite like to kill them now, to be honest. Ideally, by calling them on the phone repeatedly, until they go out of their tiny minds.
I’m thinking I need to be a bit cleverer about this now, though. By the time "Nick" called, I had already deciced that I was going to string the next Asshole Manager along a bit, keep them talking, make them think I’m interested in their scam, and somehow manage to get some details out of them that would allow me to report them to …. someone. Because I am a totally awesome detective-type person like that. But, of course, now they just keep hanging up before I can get a word out. Maybe it would be more fun to buy a whistle (OH GOD, NO!) and blow it down the phone next time they call. That wouldn’t work out so good if it turned out to be a client calling, though, hmmmm?
So, I hand my dilemma over to you, good readers. How should Total Asshole Management be handled?Over to you…
Oh, and just to add: no, not answering the phone isn’t an option – they’re calling on the business line, not the home line, which can legitimately be ignored.
I went to the gym. In fact, I went twice – GO ME! The first time I went, I forgot my membership card. The second time, I forgot the pound coin you need for the locker, so spent the entire visit worrying that when I emerged from the pool, all my stuff would have been stolen and I’d have to go home in a wet bathing suit. As it happened, I only had to worry for about twenty minutes, though, because that’s how long I was in the pool. And the reason for that? It was The Whistler.
There’s a Whistler in almost every crowd, I find. You probably know one yourself. He (for it is almost always a he) is the person who finds it impossible to exist without emitting a loud, tuneless, shrill PEEP! every few seconds, regardless of how appropriate it may be to make that noise. And as far as I’m concerned? It is NEVER appropriate to make that noise. Never.
I can’t stand whistling. I know you’re all probably sitting there going, "Ah, but it’s so CHEERFUL!" It is not cheerful. It’s freaking annoying, is what it is, and no one will ever tell me different. I think it’s the shrillness of the noise that bothers me the most. That high pitched, totally tuneless PEEP! hurts my head in just the same way as nails scraping down a blackboard, say. Or someone rubbing their hands against a balloon. (WHY DO PEOPLE DO THAT?) And just when you think the torture is over, it comes again: PEEP! Gah.
The peeping started almost as soon as I got into the pool for my swim. This, in itself, had been something of a trial, because the swimming pool, it was PACKED. Where do all the people come from? We deliberately got a membership that only allows us to use the gym during the day (it’s cheaper) thinking it would almost certainly be quieter then, because most people would be at work. What we had forgotten, of course, was that most people don’t actually seem to work these days (How do they afford the membership? Surely they can’t ALL be self-employed, like us?). And that everywhere we go, we always take The Others with us.
Yes, The Others were out in force at the pool. There was one Other in each lane, so I selected the widest lane there and got in, being careful to try and stay at the opposite end from The Other, so that when he turned, I turned at the other end, and we passed each other in the middle. Within seconds, though, three more Others had appeared and – get this – EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM GOT INTO MY LANE. Why? Why do people do this? Sure, it was the widest lane, but now there were five of us in it. We were like some kind of half-assed synchronised swimming team, while the people in the OTHER lanes swam alone, in glorious seclusion, each with an entire lane at their disposal.
I ask again: WHY DO PEOPLE DO THIS? I mean, what on earth would compel you, upon entering a swimming pool, to insert yourself into a lane that already had four other people in it, as opposed to a lane that only had one other person in it? And yes, my lane was considerably wider, but it was so overpopulated by this point that it was also considerably more cramped. And all the while, the dreaded PEEP! echoed around the room every few seconds.
I swam for as long as I could tolerate it, all of us moving as one giant mass, but finally I could take no more, so I got out of the pool and headed into the jacuzzi. As I slid into the warm water I looked back at the lane I had just vacated and saw that every single other person who had been in it was following me out. GOD. "If I jumped in the fire, would y’all jump too?" I asked bitterly. In my own head, natch.
I crossed my fingers and prayed that they wouldn’t all be following me into the jacuzzi. My prayers were answered. Well, sort of. My fellow swim-team members didn’t follow me into the jacuzzi, which, to my great joy, only contained one other person. Unfortunately, that person? Was The Whistler.
I sank down into the bubbles, anticipating a long, leisurely soak, alternating with short swims, until such a time as Terry finished doing MAN THINGS in the gym and was ready to leave.
PEEP!
I opened my eyes. Across the pool, The Whistler smiled at me benignly. I closed my eyes again.
PEEP!
I frowned.
PEEP! PEEP!
I opened them. It was hard to catch The Whistler in the act, but there was no doubt that it was him. Every time I started to relax and enjoy myself, he would start up his tuneless, high-pitched peeping. And like nails down a blackboard, it very quickly drove me to the point of insanity. I sat it out until the jacuzzi finished its cycle and the bubbles died down. As I stood up to leave, though, The Whistler stood up too. YES! I could yet wrest some relaxation from this experience, I thought, preparing to sink back down again.
The Whistler walked to the button that operates the jacuzzi and pressed it. The bubbles started up again. So did The Whistler.
PEEP! he said as he sat back down.
"Screw this!" I said, as I got out of the pool and flounced into the changing rooms, the effect ruined only slightly by the factthat I had to come back for my towel. PEEP! said The Whistler as I picked it up. It was like Chinese Water Torture. I’m actually amazed that I survived to tell the tale.
Back in the changing room, I checked to make sure my clothes hadn’t been stolen, got dressed, then spent a few happy minutes playing with the GHD hair straighteners before retiring to the lounge to read Cosmo and wait for Terry. I only have to go through this another 12 times this month and I get a free towel. Free! Towel! WHY?!
I liked the hair straighteners, though.
As a freelance writer, one of the hardest things I’ve had to learn is how to say “no” to more work when I have too much on my plate already.
It happened again today: a client called with a huge copywriting project they wanted me to work on for them, but I already have deadlines coming out of my ears (not literally), so I was forced to turn them down. Then I got to spend the rest of the day regretting it and thinking, “Maybe I could have squeezed it in if I’d just given up eating and sleeping for a few days..”
The problem is that when you’re starting out as a freelance writer, the clients tend to be few and far between, so the temptation is to take on every single one of them. For one thing, you probably need the money, and for another, there’s always that fear that if you let them go to someone else, they’ll never come back.
Even as your client list (and bank account) grows, though, it’s still hard to turn down offers of work. No matter how busy you are, that nagging voice in your head will remind you that, sure, you may have lots of work now, but what about next month? And the month after? What if it all dries up and you’re left twiddling your thumbs and playing Facebook Tetris all day long. Won’t you regret not taking on that extra project you turned down?
Well, yes and no. Money is always nice, of course, but there comes a point in your freelance life when you have to accept that you just can’t do everything. When that time comes it’s a matter of working out where you want your writing career to take you, and what kind of sacrifices you might have to make to get you there. You have to work out which projects are the highest earners/the best long-term bets or the most likely to open other doors for you. Those are the jobs you should keep. The rest? Well, those may have to take a back seat, at least for a while…
There’s another reason, too, for turning down clients, though. If you’re really overworked, and would be genuinely struggling to find time for the latest project, the chances are you won’t be able to give it the time and energy it deserves. In that case, you really should say “no”, and let it go to someone who’ll be able to do it justice.
So, I had this entry all planned out, about how Terry and I have joined a health club, and how we’re probably never going to go to the health club even although we’ve spent loads of money on it, and seriously dudes, it was going to be the BEST blog post EVER. I mean, it was going to have illustrations and everything.
Anyway, I had it all in my head, and I just had to type it out, but then, WHAM! I got another migraine. And then all hell broke loose.
See, I know I’ve mentioned here before that I’m a hypochondriac, but I’m guessing you all probably thought I was joking, or at least exaggerating. I’m not, though. Actually, I am the world’s biggest hypochondriac (I WIN AT HYPOCHONDRIA! GO ME!) which is why I spent part of this afternoon at the doctor’s surgery. I explained to the doctor that I have a brain tumour and am dying, and he explained that actually, no I’m not, I’m just mad. Well, I mean, he actually said "stressed", but it all comes down to the same thing. So, I think I’m going to use my shiny new gym membership after all. I think I’m going to use it for nice, relaxing things, like the sauna and jacuzzi, maybe the pool if I feel like breaking a bit of a sweat. Not for the actual gym, you know, because screw that.
See, I hate the gym. Actually, I hate all forms of exercise. All of them. Well, I like horse riding, of course, but ain’t too many horses at my disposal, so that’s out. But the gym and I have history. Way back in the mists of time, when I was but a lowly newspaper reporter, I decided to join a gym. I was working two jobs at the time, which meant that I had more money than sense, but also: more money than time. Needless to say, the gym membership didn’t get used too often, and when it did get used, I hated it.
The problem was that the gym I chose was attached to a golf club. All the fond parents would basically drop their kids off at the pool while they either hit the course or propped up the bar, which meant that it was more or less like a creche all the damn time. I cancelled my membership the day a little boy dive-bombed into the pool and landed ON MY BACK as I tried to swim lengths. The fact that I’d just had to stop his sister from kicking down the door of my changing room only strengthened my decision. So I left, and didn’t look back. I had learned my lesson, I thought, but clearly I hadn’t, because a few months later? I joined another gym.
This time I was doubly stupid, and got a joint membership for Terry and I, who were both still living with our parents at the time. We’d go to the gym and Terry would do MAN things like lifting weights, while I walked on the treadmill for a few minutes and then retired to the jacuzzi. Ah, many were the happy times we spent in that jacuzzi after a tough work out at the gym, and by "many" I mean "two were the times we spent in that jacuzzi". Yeah.
Well, time passed and Terry and I decided to buy a house. So that the house didn’t have to be made of cardboard, we decided we had to lose the gym subscription, to save some money. The fact that we hadn’t used it for… let’s just say a long time…. helped here. Then more time passed. Terry got his transplant and became a health freak, climbing mountains, playing tennis and generally being all wholesome and outdoorsy. I went running once, fell off my bike and then gave up exercise for good. Or at least, until yesterday, when Terry popped out to pick up his prescription and came home with two gym memberships. To the gym we used to go to a few years ago.
I can already see how this will end. In fact, as soon as I finish writing this entry, I’m going to go and write my "I haven’t been to the gym for three months now" entry and my "I quit the gym" entry. Well, it’s good to be prepared, you know? In the meantime, though, I’m thinking pool, jacuzzi (laser beam uzi), maybe some nice, gentle yoga… I mean, I can do that, right? And at the very least, I’m sure I’ll get some blog posts out of it…
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