Forever Amber

Virgin Media come good

Just a quick update on the Virgin Media/Broadbandgate saga I posted about last month... After my epic rant on the subject of how our Internet connection had died (Oh, the humanity!) and Virgin staff had hung up on Terry, Virgin did actually get in contact with us, and I thought it only fair to update here to say that we're now totally happy with the service, and Best Friends Forever again.

We've now exchanged a few emails with the complaints department, and Terry spent some time on the phone today with a very helpful man from Virgin, who went through what had happened with us, and not only apologised again for the service we encountered, but explained why they won't send out a network engineer until a certain number of calls have been received. Apparently there are sound technical reasons for this, and it's not just a case of one person's problem not being important enough to warrant attention, which is obviously the impression we were left with after our serious of disastrous phone calls.

Anyway, although Black Thursday will live forever in our memories, I thought it only fair to record that once Virgin's UK headquarters were aware of the problem, they did their very best to resolve it with us, and to make us happy customers again, and all credit to them for that.

Also: no barking from Rubin for two nights now - looks like he really did just want a haircut after all...

Virgin Media, I will poke you in the eye, I'm not even joking...

Well, folks, I may not have much of my sanity left this week, but by God, do I have a clean house - and not just because of my borderline OCD interest in cleaning this time.

No, it's because the Internet keeps going down. And when there's no Internet, ain't nothing to do but pace anxiously around the house, randomly cleaning things as a kind of frenzied displacement activity, right? Right?

It happened for the first time yesterday afternoon. There I was slogging womanfully through the massive amount of posts about shoes I had to write by the end of the week, and suddenly my computer went on a Go Slow. Each page would take five minutes to load, sometimes longer. Other times, it would time out altogether, leaving me frantically hitting the "refresh" button, because as we all know, THAT HELPS.

I put up with this for as long as I could stand it, which was about ten minutes, then I called Tech Support, who I know simply as "Terry".

Terry did manage to get things back to normal again, but it took a while, and by the time I was able to get back to work, the house was sparkling, I kid you not. The work situation, meanwhile, wasn't looking quite so good.

See, we're going away this weekend. I may have mentioned it once or twice. Even although we'll only be gone for one night, leaving early Saturday and getting back late Sunday, this trip has taken a helluva lot of arrangin'. I would say this is because we own a business, and it's hard to go away for a break when you own a business, but actually, I think it's just me. I am high maintenance. Packing for one-night away will take me hours. Hours. Let's just say I don't travel light - in fact, even although it's one night away and we're only travelling to the south of England, we're having to take a suitcase rather than a carry-on, just so I can bring all of my makeup and toiletries. Oh, and the iron.

Anyway, so I'm high-maintenance, I know that. And because I know that, I had set aside all of Friday afternoon for packing. This meant that the work I would have normally done on Friday afternoon and evening had to be done earlier this week. I decided to do it on Wednesday, and when the Internet suddenly decided not to play along, I silently congratulated myself for this feat of forward planning, for I still had all of Thursday to do this massive chunk o' work! Why, I was one clever cookie, no?

Well, no. Not really. Because today we came back to the office after Neighbours lunch, and the Internet wasn't working AT ALL. D'oh!

Prompted by my shrieks of dismay, Terry got right on the phone to Virgin Media, who are our Internet providers, hereafter referred to as the Imps of Satan. After a few short minutes, they confirmed what we already knew: there was a problem with the network in our area. Would they be doing anything about it, though? Oh hell to the no. I mean, you must be joking, it's not like we pay for this you know... oh no, wait. We do.

The Imps of Satan, you see, have a policy. The policy is that when a customer makes them aware of a problem with the Internet connection in a particular area, Virgin Media do absolutely nothing about this. At all. Instead, they wait until other people from that area call to complain. Only when a certain Magic Number of complaints is reached will they send someone to fix the problem. Until then? Nothing.

Now, this is clearly the dumbest policy in the world, ever. I mean, if you're eating in a restaurant and you complain to the server that hey, there was a severed finger in your soup, they don't just shrug and say, "So? We'll wait until we get complaints about the other four before we do anything about that," do they? No. (Well, it depends where you're eating I guess.) No, if a customer has a problem, you try your best to fix that problem, you don't just yawn and say, "Well, yaknow, if there were lots of people with the problem, we'd care, but seeing as it's just you..."  Or, to put it another way, "Screw you, suckers! We're not going to fix your stupid Internet until an angry mob beats a path to our door and demands we FIX THE INTERNET NOW."

Trust me, I was totally willing to arrange this. I'm sure Rubin and I could totally act like an "angry mob". No, really.

Anyway, that wasn't the worst thing The Imps of Satan did to us today. No, the worst thing they did was slam down the phone when Terry called them back an hour later to ask what was going on. (And trust me, Terry was perfectly polite to the operator. She just slammed the phone down on him because she was a bitch.) Oh, and they also blatantly lied to him at one point too, just to get him off the phone. This was confirmed by the supervisor he eventually got to speak to after about two hours of no Internet, and another mad bout of house cleaning from me.

After that we gave up and resorted to dial-up. I know! Rocking it 1999 style! It was more or less the same as the day before when the computer had been on the Go Slow, only worse, because by then I wanted to break something - preferably something at Virgin Media.

So, it's now 9pm, and I've only just finished making up the time I've lost. I haven't even had time to think about packing the iron and all that stuff, although I have found time to worry quite a bit about dying a fiery death as my plane plummets to the ground on Saturday, because that whole "Not worrying about the flying" thing I was talking about earlier this week?"  Oh how young and naive I was back then! Thanks for all of the "plane crashing into the ocean" dreams you've served up in the intervening nights, subconscious! Is the hypochondria not enough of a stick for you to beat me with? Sheesh.

Anyway. The broadband connection is working again, although for how long, who knows. The work is finally either done or abandoned, because GOD, there's only so much you can do with slow-speed dial-up, you know?

I have wine in the fridge. And a really, really clean house in which to drink it. And Virgin Media? I am SO coming to poke you in the eye, don't you forget it...

UPDATE: For the benefit of anyone reading this in the future, as the result of a Google search, I am no longer intent on poking Virgin Media in the eye, and you can read the update to this story here. 

Their Parents Must Be So Proud

Today Terry and I didn't have time to go to the gym, so I decided to do my bit for the ol' waistline by going out for a run around the streets of the Ghetto.

Within ten minutes of leaving the house I was invited to "get my boobies out". About thirty seconds later I was called a "ho" (No, I didn't obey the first command, in case you're wondering if that was why...). And OK, both of these comments came from pre-teens, but seriously: the fact that I can't even go for a walk run within a few hundred metres of my own front door without being verbally abused by kids who clearly aren't mature enough to be allowed out in public without a minder is pretty disgusting to me. Seriously.

On the plus side, though, at least I can give up running now.

Don't go knockin' on my door

Why must people keep knocking my door all the time? If it's not men wanting to know whether I want my driveway mono-blocked (Yes I do, but I don't want to pay for it, so go away) or kids selling tablet, it's people telling me that, hey, looks like my windows are about to cave right in, so it's lucky they were in the area because their dad just happens to have a double-glazing firm, and they could totally cut me a deal right then and there!

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, people, LEAVE ME ALONE. Can you not see I'm busy looking at shoes I can't afford on the internet doing my important work? Can you not HEAR how crazy my dog gets every time you set so much as ONE TOE on my non-monoblocked driveway (hey, maybe I should... Nah, forget it.), the sound sending him into the kind of hysterical rage that it takes us HOURS - well, minutes, anyway - to bring him down from?

Also: people who are collecting for charity? You knock on my door one more time late at night with your pious expression and your talk of how you need to take all of my money for "the chyyyyldren" and I'll set my dog on you, m'kay? And bearing in mind the fact that we haven't had any mail since Rubin rounded up the postman that time, believe me, that is not an idle threat. I will decide when and how I give to charity. ME. Not you. So don't even think about disturbing me in my important work to try and guilt-trip me into handing over a bunch of cash. What are you, highwaymen?

Anyway, I don't keep cash in the house. (Actually, I don't keep cash in the bank, either. I keep my cash in the form of shoes, in my wardrobe. And that;s how I like it.) I'm like the Queen that way. The only way you're getting money off me is if you start taking Visa. And even then you're not getting any money off me because I DON'T HAND OUT MONEY TO TOTAL STRANGERS WHO KNOCK ON MY DOOR LATE AT NIGHT, CAUSING MY DOG TO HAVE A CONNIPTION AND DISTURBING ME IN MY IMPORTANT WORK.

I will take some of that tablet, though.

P.S. Just speaking of Rubin, he finally decided to get his paw out and start updating his blog again, and today he has taken the lazy bloggers route by posting a short video clip of himself. You should go see. Oh COME ON, people, it's a freakin' TALKING DOG, what more do you want?

P.P.S He doesn't actually talk in the video though. Just thought I should make that clear in order to manage your expectations effectively. He only talks to special people, know what I mean?

When Telemarketing Goes Wrong

You know what I hate? What I really, really hate? Telemarketers who not only call me up to try and sell me stuff when I'm a member of the Telephone Preference Service, but telemarketers who HANG UP ON ME without another word the second the words "Sorry, I'm not interested," come out of my mouth. I mean, seriously, that's just rude, isn't it? Did their mothers never teach them how to close a call professionally? DO THEY SLEEP WELL AT NIGHT?

The latest offender was a Chinese restaurant in our town, who, seeing as they weren't ashamed to slam the phone down on me as soon as I politely declined their offer of having my business featured on their menu, presumably won't mind being named here - it was the China Glen in Livingston. Guess I'm not going to be eating THERE then...

Shortly after that I was called by a rep from a catalogue company. "Is that Mrs McNugget?" she asked. (They always call me that. Most of the time I just say, "Sorry, you have the wrong number, no one by that name here!", but this time I decided to play along.) I admitted that it was,indeed, "Mrs McNugget". Even although that makes me sound like some kind of crazy cartoon Scottish person with a kilt and possibly a beard. "OK, Mrs McNuggest," said the telemarketer. "For security purposes, before we continue the call, I'm going to need you to confirm your address, postcode and telephone number."

Er, sorry, but WHY? Why have they started doing this? They call you to try and sell you something you don't need/want, but before they do, they try to get you to hand over all of your personal details. WHY? Because they think you're stupid, that's why. I mean, if a random stranger walked up to you in the street and asked you for your name, address and telephone number, you wouldn't just spit it out, would you?

Now, I did think this one had the potential to turn into the type of call I had with Lynette from MBNA that time, but I was feeling slightly frazzled by this point, so I settled for telling her that for MY security reasons I didn't really want to give her my details, and she went away. And why was I feeling frazzled, I hear you ask? (Note: I don't really. Oh, I KNOW you don't care about my ongoing bathroom issues - I just pretend you do. It makes me feel important.) Because these calls (plus about five other marketing calls) came to me on Friday, which just so happened to mark the start of the Weekend of No Bathroom.

No, the bathroom project is STILL not finished. We DO now have most of the wall around the bath re-tiled, but the rest of the room still looks like a building site, and we weren't able to use the shower for 48 hours while the "grout" dried, which meant that we've spent the weekend driving to the gym every time we wanted a shower. (I KNEW that gym membership would be useful for SOMETHING!) It wasn't a whole lot of fun - especially not for Terry, who had to do the tiling AND listen to me whining about it all.

We're hopeful it will be finished sometime before the end of the decade. In the meantime, this is Mrs McNugget, signing out...

Quiet, Please.

There was a Whistler in the library this morning. Yes, a Whistler. In. the. Library. Where people are trying to read.

At first I thought I was hearing things, for surely everyone knows that the library is a place where there is QUIET. PLEASE. But "Peep!" came from over by the County and Westerns. And a few seconds later, "Peep peep!" came from the Large Print section. Yup, it was a Whistler alright. Is nowhere sacred?

Apparently not. Because here's the thing: try as I might, I couldn't really blame The Whistler for thinking that it was absolutely fine to be polluting the stillness of the library with his attention-seeking PEEPS. No, he was just taking his cue from everyone else in the library, most notably the librarians themselves, who were listening to the radio from their station. Their station IN THE LIBRARY, that is. The library where it used to be quiet, but where everyone's now just blaring out music and freaking PEEPING all day long.

Encouraged by the inane chatter of breakfast time DJs and "chart-toppers" from the 80s, the other patrons were doing their utmost to add to the general din. Over by the computing section came the tinny roar of an MP3 player being basted at "loud enough so everyone in the library can hear it, even above the sound of the radio and The Whistler" level. (Aside: why do people who do this always listen to crappy dance music?) In the "research" area, two women were sitting chatting away IN LOUD VOICES. Well, they kinda had to be loud to be heard above the rest of the racket, didn't they? Their children, meanwhile, played a loud game of chase around one of the book carousels, shrieking at the top of their little lungs as they did so.

PEEP! said the Whistler!
SHRIEK! said the children!
TINNY ROAR OF TRANCE MUSIC! said the MP3 player.
"We don't give a crap because we're too busy listening to the radio" said the librarians!

"IS NOWHERE SACRED?" said the crazy redhead who, seriously, just went in there to escape the sounds of plumbing this morning, and, OK, because she had that fine to pay. I mean, seriously, I'm well aware of the fact that most people like to behave as if they are the ONLY people in the entire world, and that the world revolves entirely around them, but is it too much to ask that they could just shut the hell up for a few minutes while they're in the damn library?

Is it?

The Phantom Phoner

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...

Total Asset Management can kiss my ass(et management)

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.

A journey through my blog referrers

So, occassionally I like to amuse myself by taking a look at the things you crazy kids type into Google to find this here blawg. Here are some of this week's, which provide a handy insight into the wrath behind my last post, about Facebook and ginger-bashing. And, you know, a handy insight into how totally freaky some people are...

forever amber blog
Typing www.foreveramber.co.uk will get you here quicker, but hi, hello, how are you, loyal readers who are Googling JUST FOR ME. Am flattered.

i have red hair, will my baby?
Oh, here we go. I knew it was too good to be true. You had to get started with the whole "red haired baby" thing, didn't you? Yes, your baby will have red hair. Try not to breed.

how to avoid a ginger haired child
Um, cross the street, maybe? Or no, wait: just don't go out AT ALL. That way you don't have to see the ginger children and they don't have to see you, either. Everyone's a winner, baby. Also: you're an idiot - have a nice day, now!

i see stupid people
Yeah, tell me about it, I see them too. In fact, one of them typed the search term right above yours, as a matter of fact...

amber mcnaught
Can we say "stalker"?

how would a red head with freckles avoid having children with freckles?
Freckles are caused by the sun. You would avoid having a child with them by protecting its skin from the sun. You would avoid having a STUPID child, on the other hand, by protecting it from YOU.

should ginger haired people dye there hair brown or blonde
I dunno: should stupid people maybe learn how to spell before hitting up Google, hmmm?

look back in amber
Hey, lookit what you did there! You made a clever pun! I'm TOTALLY going to use that as a post title one day - just so's you know. Also: I make the jokes around here, 'kay?

waistband stretcher
Who knew the post about the waistband stretcher would still be getting hits, almost a year to the day since I wrote it?

i hate my mirrored wardrobe sliding doors
Oh God, me too! Man, am I glad Terry broke those bad boys, giving us a cast-iron excuse to get new ones.

amber is a spoiled brat .com
Now hold on one cotton-pickin' minute there: Amber is a spoiled what now? What're you calling me? You don't want to make me angry, you know - we redheads have some MEAN tempers...

can't take my eyes off you mcnaught
Oh, you! Stop it, I'm blushing :)

there was a big wad of wax in my ear is that normal?
Doctor Amber, she say... No. Not normal. Now stop looking it up on the Internet and go see your doctor.

why do they call redheads ginger?
Because they are stupid. Next!

what do people do on honeymoon
Seriously, dude, if you have to ask, I don't think I can help you...

knew shoes
Please tell me you didn't mean "new shoes" when you typed this. Oh, you poor thing.

pretty redhead ugly redhead
I'm not going to tell you about this again, you know

ginger phobic t shirt
I mean it...

ugly red head children
OK, one more jibe about redheads and I'm leaving

mean red haired kids
...

Now Facebook hates redheads too!

Q: Why do redheads take the pill?
A: Wishful thinking.

Q: What do you call a good looking man with a redhead?
A: A hostage.

Q: What do you call a redhead with large breasts?
A: A mutant.

Stop me if you've heard any of these before, by the way. I discovered them all by chance, last week on Facebook, where I discovered a hitherto untapped source of redhead hatred. "Red hair sucks – I'd rather die!" is the name of the group that initially caught my eye, but a quick search revealed dozens of others, including "Redheads are gingers and they have no soul", "If you have red hair I'm sorry, but we just can’t be friends" and the short but sour "Redheads suck!" Nice.

Of course, I've always known that if assholes could fly, the Internet would be an airport, but it was still a little worrying to discover that prejudice is alive, well and thriving on one of the web's biggest social networking site. Facebook is going through a bit of a "media's darling" phase at the moment, but while most people are probably using it to stalk old school friends and play Tetris Tournament when they should be working (I know I am), others are apparently using it to try and incite hatred towards that much maligned social group - the gingers.

The problem is that there's no arguing with these people. Believe me, I tried. I sent a message to one of the more offensive posters on the "Red hair sucks" group. "Hmhmhmhmhm," came back the answer. We're clearly dealing with a powerful set of intellects here, which is kind of reassuring: they'll never prove that we "have no soul" if they can't even string a coherent sentence together. "Am kind of dumb," my idiot correspondent admitted in a follow-up message. Well, you said it...

The other problem with all of this, of course, is that if you are a "ginger", you're not allowed to be offended by it. To admit to feeling even a little bit hurt by such overt hatred is to admit to having no sense of humour, because most of this drivel - not to mention the teasing and negativity redheads get in real life - tries to masquerade as "humour". It's funny, you see? "Geez, lighten up!" they'll tell you if you so much as raise an eyebrow at the "hilarious" jokes. "Stop taking things personally! You have to be able to laugh at yourself, you know - especially if you're a ginger!" Boom boom! I'd imagine blondes probably feel much the same way about the "dumb blonde" jokes that float around: funny, sure - as long as they're not directed at you.

As "funny" and "lighthearted" as you may believe it is, though, there's a serious side to it all, too. How many little redheaded girls (and boys) are growing up believing that they're fundamentally unlovable and ugly, just because of all of these idiotic comments and oh-so-funny "jokes".

Is it really OK to make fun of a whole sector of society and call it "humour", I wonder? Or is it only OK when it's not about you?

(Note: this is actually a column I wrote yesterday for Dollymix, but I figured I'd post it here, too, seeing as this site still gets so many hits from people who've Googled phrases like, "If my unborn child turns out to have red hair, can I kill it?" and the like. Asshats.)

Adventures in almost getting arrested

So, you'd think having the content of my entire blog stolen would probably be the most unfair thing that would happen to us all weekend, right?

You would be wrong. It wasn't the most unfair thing that happened all weekend. The most unfair thing that happened was when Terry was stopped by the police, just for having a nice car. Because that totally makes sense.

We were on the way to Edinburgh for a barbecue when we saw the police car. It was heading in the opposite direction, but as soon as the cops noticed us they did a big, dramatic U-turn and started following us. Exciting! I love a chase, me. Not that it was much of a "chase" though: Terry, who was driving, had noticed them turn round, and had been watching them in his rear view mirror, so he knew they were following him. Actually, Terry pretty much always knows when the police are following him, because the police pretty much always are. It's the car, we think. The car is old, but it is a bit flashy looking. Terry and I, on the other hand, are not even remotely flashy looking, so the police normally assume we stole the car. Many are the times Terry has been pulled over for no particular reason (OK, four are the times he's been pulled over, and one of those times he was speeding), just so they can give it the once over and phone Interpol, or whatever it is that the police do in these situations.

But I digress. They pulled us over about sixty seconds after they started following us. Despite this, as soon as the cop came to the car window he decided to be all dramatic, and said, "You obviously don't use your mirrors enough - we've been trying to pull you over for ages." This, my friends? Was a dirty, rotten lie. I hate that.

The reason they had pulled us over? They said the rear lights on the car were "illegal" and, indeed, "dangerous". This was news to us, because the car had been MOT'd just four days earlier. Yes, last week Terry went through the torture and fear that is an MOT-Day. When he drove away, £200 the lighter, he had no idea that he was driving away in a "dangerous" and "illegal" vehicle. "Why would the car have passed the MOT if it was dangerous and illegal?" said Terry to the cop. "Pshaw!" said the cop to Terry. "An MOT does not check whether your vehicle is legal or not! Tut!" Then he took Terry away to his car and kept him there for twenty minutes. I remained in the car with a pile of marinated pork and seven barbecue spears on my knee, thanking Christ that they hadn't stopped me and checked my tax disc twice, because, whoops, although I bought a new one, I didn't actually remember to put it on the car.

Now, this situation sucked, and the police knew it did. They tried really hard to find something else wrong with the car, going over it with a finetooth comb (Note: not really. They just used their hands.) and seemed to be really gutted when everything was in order. After all that, they didn't even fine Terry: instead, having told him that he should not trust the MOT test centre to tell him whether his car is legal or not, he has to take it to the MOT test centre within the next 21 days, and get them to tell him whether it's legal or not. So, just to clarify: he must take his car to Kwick Fit and get them to sign a piece of paper saying that they reckon the car is safe to drive. This would be the same Kwick Fit he took the car to last week, and who gave him a piece of paper saying that they reckoned it was safe to drive. Words fail me. (Note: not really, again. Or I wouldn't have written this mammoth blog post, would I?)

So, this has annoyed me quite a bit. My feeling - and I am rarely wrong about these things - is that the cops were just bored and decided to pick on Terry because they saw him driving a nice car. Also, even although it is something I've always suspected, I am also surprised to find that the MOT test is not, in fact, a test to see if there is anything wrong with your car, but is a test to see if there's any way the garage can arrange to take money from you. I feel a bit ripped off, really.

Still, at least the barbecue was good.

Patience is a virtue, people. Also: use email.

You know what I hate? The phone. I am phone phobic to the extreme: when it rings, I seriously want to run away and hide, because I HATE TALKING TO PEOPLE ON THE PHONE. I think it's something to do with not being very bright: I find it well nigh impossible to speak/listen and think at the same time, so I always come across like a halfwit on the phone, and that's not an image I really like to cultivate y'know?

People will insist on calling me, though, so what can you do? I mean, other than buying a whistle and blowing it really hard down the line at them so they get the message and USE EMAIL, obviously. Email, people. Just use it already. See how easy and non-intrusive it is! See the pretty words appear on the screen! How clever it is! How totally fabby! How much of a lifesaver for someone like me who HATES THE FREAKING PHONE. God. *

You know what I hate even more than I hate the phone, though? Impatient people. I know, this is ironic because I? Am the most impatient person in the world. In. The. World. But even I am not as impatient as some of the people who mis-use the phone, and, specifically, who use the phone to call me and ask me if I've received the email they sent me, and, if so, why I haven't replied to it yet?

Seriously, why do people do this? Is it just to give you a heads-up that they're going to be totally awkward people to work with? Because they invariably are. I mean, there's a pretty good chance that the person who sends me an email and then phones me not long afterwards to ask why I haven't replied to it will not be able to contain themselves during the time it takes me to actually complete the thing they want me to do. They'll be the ones on the phone every thirty minutes going, "Is it finished? Well, is it finished NOW? Are we nearly there yet, dad?" Gah.

The thing is, I get a LOT of emails every day. Seriously, loads.  I get so many emails I had to stop Outlook send/receiving automatically because it was stopping me getting anything done. And while some of them are just trying to sell me viagra, or to inform me that "You've received a postcard from a family member! Open it to release a trojan horse into your system!", a lot of them are work-related, and will require a little bit of thought to answer. I CANNOT  reply to them all simultaneously. I CANNOT  even reply to  them all instantly, dashing off a response the very second the email arrives. If I were to reply instantly to every email I receive in a day, I wouldn't actually have time to work. I'd probably write some really nonsensical emails, too. (Not that I don't already, but, you know...)

Some people, though? Some people just cannot understand that I WORK. For lots of clients, not just you. And while yes, I know you are very special, I am not able to just drop everything else I'm trying to juggle here, just so that you can get an instant response to your email. So, you know, stop doing that, OK?

Also: people who call me and say, "Yes, I need you to write a bunch of articles for me. I don't know how long I need them to be, or what they will be about, but I need them, like tomorrow, how much will that cost me?" Stop doing that, too.

That is all.

* Obviously, if something is urgent, phone calls are acceptable. But things so rarely are urgent that really, use email.

Two Little Boys

So, in preparation for the start of Project Calm the Hell Down, I headed to the library on Friday to get myself a big pile o'books. While I was standing in the queue to check out this big pile o'books, I noticed two little boys standing in front of me. Suddenly, as if moved by some kind of sixth sense, Little Boy # 1 turned his head towards me, Exorcist style. He glanced at me and then did one of those comedy double-takes, his eyes widening in horror.

"Kids!" I thought, glancing quickly down to make sure I hadn't, you know, forgotten to wear pants or something. But I hadn't forgotten. And my humiliation was not yet over.

Little Boy # 1 turned to Little Boy # 2 and began whispering frantically in his ear, casting excited glances in my direction all the while. Something in his demeanor told me he was telling LB#2, "Don't look now and make it too obvious, but..." Sure enough, both boys turned to face the front, and, after a discreet pause, Little Boy # 2 swivelled his head towards me, took a good look, and then collapsed, giggling, upon his friend.

WHY? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Why am I suddenly an object of ridicule to little kids?

Because I'm not much of a one for suffering the little children and all that jazz, I opened my mouth to tell them that, yes, I could see them laughing at me and it wasn't very nice now, was it... then I remembered Project Calm the Hell Down, so I took a deep breath instead and satisfied myself with imagining how one day they, too, will be old and laughed at by young whippersnappers.

BUT WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Is it because I'm a "ginger"?  (I don't think it can be, because LB#2 had red hair too). Was it the over sized sunglasses perched on top of my head which, OK, make me look a bit like a giant human insect, but hey, I like looking like a giant human insect, and anyway, they help with the migraines? Am I too fat for my skinny jeans? WHAT?

In better news, Project Calm the Hell Down is going well. Today? I didn't get up until 9.30am. Go me!

Next, please!

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!

One Angry Woman

So, yesterday Terry and I headed into Edinburgh to meet up with my Shiny colleague Erin and her fiance Dave for food and, of course, shopping. I so wish I'd thought to take a picture of the expressions on Terry and Dave's faces as they watched Erin and I worship at the shrine of Chloe and Christian Louboutin (Harvey Nichols) - the poor souls were quite bemused by how very fascinating bags and shoes can be, and this is because men? Are mad.

Anyway, we had a lovely time, and now Erin and Dave are off to live in Australia. (They had planned to do this anyway, I should add: they didn't just decided to move to the other side of the world after meeting me and Terry. Or I don't think they did, anyway...) I, meanwhile, returned home, went to bed and prepared to sit back and enjoy Thursday, which was to be the first lie-in of the Christmas holidays. Not the word "was", here, however. This morning I did not get to sleep late. Why, I hear you ask, almost as if you care? Well, because this morning the postman woke us up at EIGHT O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING with a COURT SUMMONS for me. Me!

Actually, it wasn't a real court summons. I just said that because I'm all about the drama. It was a summons to appear in court, though - but as a juror. Damn. Remember way back in the summer when I got the letter saying that I'd one day be called for jury duty? And my lawyer (for yes, I have a lawyer. It's in case I am bad) was all "Pshaw, you will totally not get called - they're just jerkin' ya!"?*  Well I got called. I'm supposed to report for duty on January 22nd, and actually? I'm kind of crapping myself right about now. I mean, hello, self employed over here! Who will do my work while I am "sequestered"? (Answer: no one will. I just won't get paid for weeks, and the house will be repossessed and we will have to live on the street in a cardboard box, and OMG I think I'm having a panic attack!)

Also: what if it turns out to be like the OJ trial, and we are totally stuck there for months, and I have to miss my wedding AND my honeymoon (not, you understand, that I will be able to have a honeymoon anyway if I have to do jury service - apparently most people serve for two weeks, which would mean a total of four weeks without work between January and April.) and the family of The Accused start stalking me and threatening me, and then they follow me home one night and kill me because I got their "boy" sent down? WHAT IF, people?

No, I just can't stand it. I have already written a letter begging to be let off, and the letter, it is three pages long. That's a LOT of begging, let me tell you. I feel kind of dirty now. Note: no one comment here saying, "Oh, but you could totally write a book about the whole fascinating experience, Amber, because you're all about writing books!" There will be no book. Nuh-uh. (Although I am thinking of pitching my "JURY DUTY RUINED MY LIFE!" story to some of the women's magazines. I bet they will totally buy it, and my career will be saved! Maybe the wedding mags would like to commission me for "JURY DUTY RUINED MY WEDDING!" too? Hmmmm...) No, there will be no book, and also: I've already experienced the whole court thing as a reporter. That was "fascinating" enough for me, and by "fascinating" I mean, "It was actually quite interesting, but it was mostly like waiting for a bus, only you're waiting in a courtroom, and the bus is really, really late, and when it finally turns up it has criminals on board who look like they will probably spit on you if you make eye contact with them." Honestly, I'll pass on that kind of "interesting", thanks all the same...

Also, while we're on the subject, no one comment saying, "But you MUST do jury duty, it's your civic duty!" either, because I just don't buy it. The whole "tried by a jury of your peers" thing has one huge, fatal flaw as far as I'm concerned and that flaw is the assumption that your peers are all intelligent, reasonable people. Well, I'm here to tell you that's not true, folks. I am neither reasonable or particularly intelligent, and actually? I don't really like my peers - especially the ones that live in my street. (Yes, you with the car-stereo-used-as-a-boom-box, I am talking about you. Gee, hope you're not up in court on the 22nd by any chance, are you?) I mean, if I ever had to appear in court and stepped into the dock only to see myself sitting in the jury box, I'd be VERY afraid. (Not least because that would mean I'd somehow managed to split myself into two separate entities.) And actually, I can think of DOZENS of my peers who should never sit on a jury. (Peers who are reading this right now: I'm talking about my other peers, not you. You would be great on a jury! Hey, are you doing anything at the end of January?) DOZENS. And I bet they wouldn't want me standing in judgment of them, either especially if they're the type of people who play loud music from their cars, because I hate that. I'd convict them for that right away. Even if it wasn't the reason they were in court...

So, yes, that was my morning: frittered away writing a three page letter and whining unattractively to Terry. Things did get better in the afternoon, though, when I went to the sales and bought shoes which I can't really afford. At least I'll be wearing nice shoes when I'm sent down for contempt of court...

* Note: not what he actually said

How White Van Men Ruined My Life

So, another day, another white van pulls up outside the house, has multiple power tools unloaded from it, and is then used as a giant speaker, as its occupants strive to keep the volume load enough to still be audible over the noise of their drilling and sawing. AAARGH! WHAT IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE?! Why has no one got any manners any more? In my day, you respected your neighbours. This was all fields then, you see, and this "pop music" they listen to? Well, in my day we had real music, that you could dance to. Gah.

</grumpyoldwoman>

Also: I think I'm getting the cold. This is a problem, because I? Am a hypochondriac. Did I ever tell you I'm a hypochondriac? Well I am. Why, in the summer I had a spate of migraines, and convinced myself that I had a brain tumor. Nothing to do with the fact that all of my migraine triggers were present, in high volumes, for two weeks. Hell, no. Much more likely that I was dying. Much more likely. I actually lost two pounds in weight during this period, due to the whole "shaking with fear" thing. I call it "The Migraine Diet". Works like no other. Don't try it at home, kids...

So, anyway, I think I'm getting the cold, but it's only a very low-level cold which hasn't really come to anything yet - slight sore throat, slightly runny nose, slight.. getting-the-cold feeling. It looks like the cold and it feels like the cold, but it has yet to actually develop into the cold, so my question, obviously, is "What if it's a terrible, fatal illness?" What if it's a terrible, fatal illness but I assume it's just the cold, so I don't do anything about it and then I die? WHAT IF, people?

Actually, while I'm here and ranting, here have another: as well as having the cold, I AM cold. So, so cold. Cold as in "I'm wearing two sweaters and a cardigan and I still can't get warm" cold. No, this is nothing to do with the "getting the cold" scenario mentioned above. This is how I spend every winter without fail. For reasons that have never been clear to me, I feel the cold more than most people. In Florida? I carry a light sweater with me at all times, just in case the temperature drops below 90. In Scotland, during the winter? I wear all my clothes, all the time. This is why I write about fashion for a living, clearly. Gah.

The Trouble With Working from Home Part Deux: The Drive-By Client

I love working from home, wouldn't change it for the world. The problem with that, though? Well, there are three.

1. It becomes very, very easy to just not bother getting out of bed in the morning

2. What clothes? This here dressing gown does me just fine, thanks very much. (Note to self: buy selection of dressing gowns. Maybe a black one. Black goes with everything.)

3. The house gets messy.

Yes, number three surprised me, too. I'd always assumed that those who worked from home would have perfect palaces of houses, given all that lovely time they have to clean. Yeah, I was clearly on crack when I thought that. People who go out to work have much tidier homes, and that's purely because they're not there enough to make a real mess. We are at home, and, by-God, we do make a mess. For this reason, we do not invite clients into our home.

See, my home is my castle, and by "my castle" I mean "My tiny little two-bedroom semi-detached house". Unfortunately, my home is also my office, and this means that, from time to time, clients will try to invite themselves round. Normally we can put them off pretty easily, either by offering to come to them instead, or suggesting a halfway house of a meeting place. If the worst came to the worst, the local business centre hires out meeting rooms, and I'd honestly rather do that than have people come into the house.

It's nothing personal: I mean, obviously I don't start making gagging noises when they suggest coming round, or go "Eeewww! You're not getting into my house!" I just casually suggest that I come to them instead, and, for the most part, this works out just fine. Sometimes, though: sometimes we get what I call "drive-bys". Clients who call us from their car and say "Hey, guess what? It just so happens that I'm parked outside your house right now! Why don't I come in and drop off that cheque/CD with images that Terry needs/totally non-urgent piece of paper that you didn't even need in the first place?"

This happened to us last week, with one of Terry's clients. It was horrendous. In the five minutes worth of warning time that we had (WARNING! THIS IS YOUR FIVE MINUTE WARNING! CLIENT INCOMING! CLIENT INCOMING!) we had to rush around the house, plucking knickers off radiators, hiding dirty dishes under the bed, checking to make sure Rubin hadn't peed on that corner of the couch that he will keep peeing on any chance he gets, and generally trying to create the illusion that, why yes! As it happens, we totally are an organised, professional and - yes - perfect couple of business owners.

Once the client was in situ in the lounge, though, the fun was only just beginning! You see, business and animals? They just don't mix. (Unless you're a vet, or a zoo keeper or something, obv.) At the moment we have not one, but three animals. One is Rubin. One is Woody the Stick Insect. One is Pepe the Parrot. This is Pepe the Parrot:

 

Isn't Pepe cute? DUH! Wrong answer! Pepe is NOT cute. Pepe is a little b*****d who screams the place down, making a noise that's sort of a cross between a train going through a tunnel and a very large person being brutally murdered every time a) the phone rings b) he is left on his own for more than a few seconds or c) Terry leaves the room for any reason at all. He also bites.

This is Rubin. The Man.:

Isn't Rubin cute? Well, yes, he is. But Rubin? Is mental. Crazy mental. It's probably the wolf blood in him. What Rubin can't stand is not being the centre of attention. If there is someone new in the house, Rubin feels that person's attention should be focused solely on him and him alone. If it's not? He will cry like a baby.

So, client is in the lounge with Terry. I am in the "office" with Rubin, Pepe and Woody the Stick insect. (You're not getting a picture of Woody, OK? Just imagine a stick with legs. That's our Woody for ya! He and Pepe belong to Terry's mum, who is on holiday, by the way. We didn't just spontaneously decide to get ourselves a menagerie or something.) Pepe is screaming like a train/murder victim. Rubin is crying like a very noisy baby, and also: scratching at the door. Woody is...well, Woody is being a stick. I got no beef with him.

Despite all of this, I think we managed to pull off the "We are professionals" thing OK. (Sorry, I've just realised you were probably waiting for a punch line here, weren't you? You were thinking I was going to pour bleach in the client's coffee, or pee on him or something, weren't you? Well, there isn't a punchline. Sorry. You just read all that for nothing. Please don't hate me.) I did find one of Terry's socks on the stairs after the guy left, but as the only reason the client would have come up the stairs would have been to use the bathroom, and as Terry was under strict instructions to say that, sorry, we don't have one, we were good. Luckily the man didn't ask. I would imagine the screams coming from the bedroom probably acted as a deterrent there. He probably thinks Terry has a mad wife in the attic or something, and actually? He sort of does, when you come to think of it.

Anyway, Pepe and Woody go home tomorrow, so at least that particular problem is solved. Other than that, I don't quite know what we can do to put off drive-bys. As I see it, there are only three solutions:

1. Rent offices (Totally not an option, not only because of the cost, but because we just don't want to. I hate offices with a passion)

2. Switch off all the lights and hide when they drive by. (Note: Let them in if they come bearing a cheque, though, because, God knows, getting money out of clients is like getting the truth out of Heather Mills...)

3. Become perfect people, whose home is always perfect, like the Fly Lady's Chances of this happening: slim to nil.

Still. At least I wasn't naked this time.

A Note....

... to all of the people (the many, many people) who've been finding this blog lately after googling some variation of "worried that baby will be ginger" or "chances of having ginger haired baby" or "can I dye my baby's hair if it is ginger?" (No, I'm seriously not kidding on that last one):

Please, do the world a favour: just don't breed. It's way too risky. We have enough stupid people in the world already, thanks: we don't need the likes of you diluting the gene pool any further.

I mean, seriously, if this isn't evidence that people should have to apply for a license to breed (and pass all kinds of anti-stupidity tests along the way), I don't know what is. And I really hope that these people don't have red-haired babies: not through any concern for the sheer embarrassment of the parents (I mean, GOD, imagine having to be seen with it!), but out of real concern for the children who might be born to people like this.

It absolutely terrifies me that there are people out there who would seriously consider dyeing a newborn's hair because they don't think it looks nice. It frightens the crap out of me that there are people worried that they might not be able to love their child if it's a redhead. Poor kids. What a start in life, eh.

I'm being serious: I don't think these people should be allowed to breed. They really don't deserve children.

That is all.

Why Journalists Hate PRs Part 2

Well, because it's Friday, and because I obviously didn't learn my lesson the first time I wrote about this, here's another prime example of Things PRs Do That Annoy Me, hot off the press this morning.

(DISCLAIMER: Not all PRs annoy me. Not all PRs do Bad Things. In fact, most of them are lovely! I heart them! On with the show...)

The example: an email from a PR, complaining about the fact that although his company advertised in a recent supplement I wrote some copy for, they were not mentioned in the editorial. “We advertise heavily in [name of publication]” he wrote, “and would therefore expect to get a mention.”

Oh really? And why is that, then? Surely this PR is not suggesting that his company would like to buy their way into an article? I mean, I’m sure that’s not what he’s trying to say, because, after all, PRs never do things like that, and if they do, well hey, journalists are just as bad, so there’s no point in me complaining about it, is there?

I think there is, actually. Last week I was criticised by a PR for apparently “relying on press releases too much”. This week I’m criticised by a PR for not relying on them enough, and for – shock horror – neglecting to give preferential treatment to advertisers. I really can’t win, can I?  For the record, the advertising team at the publication in question don’t tell me who has taken out adverts. This is because I don’t need to know. It’s not relevant. If a company has done something newsworthy, then they can expect to get some coverage. Buying advertising space is not newsworthy, and if a journalist has any integrity at all, it’s not going to sway their decision on whether or not to include you.  If you buy advertising you’ll get an advert. That’s it. You don’t have the right to complain about not also getting editorial because as long as your advert appeared, you got what you paid for.

Thankfully, the vast majority of PRs out there are well aware that “advertising” and “news” are two completely different things – or should be. It's the ones who don't who make my job difficult, and I have to say that, of all of the things PRs have done to irritate me recently, I think this one wins the prize.

To put it in perspective: lots of companies advertise in this particular supplement, and only one PR complained that their advert didn't guarantee them editorial. So this kind of behaviour is hardly what you could call "the norm". The problem is, though, that there's always one, isn't there? Every single time I've written for something like this, there'll be at least one PR who'll have a hissyfit because they thought buying an advert automatically guaranteed them preferential treatment. Where do they get this idea from? Is it the advertising team, promising them the world just to get their hands on the cold, hard cash? Is it the fact that some publications do allow advertisers to monopolize editorial? Is it the PR industry itself? Answers on a press release postcard...

No One Loves a Red Haired Baby

Hey peeps. Tonight I’d like to talk about how hideously disfigured I am. No, this is not a digging-for-compliments exercise or even a self-indulgent entry focusing on the fascinating subject of how insecure I am about the way I look – I'm way too old for all that jazz. No, I actually am hideously disfigured, and do you know how I know? Why, because the good ladies over at the Handbag.com forums told me so, of course. Repeatedly.

Actually, let's be fair: they weren't talking about me in particular, and I'm sure if they were to meet me they'd all be quick to assure me that, of course, my hair is perfectly lovely, and not at all the shade of red – sorry, "ginger" – that so offends their eyes. Yes, folks, we're talking about hair, here. Specifically, red hair – or "ginger" hair as they like to call it. Why, hair just like mine in fact! Isn't it awful? Don't you just pray that your children, should you have them, are never cursed with this particular disfigurement? Lots of people do (pray, that is), and who can blame them?

The thread in question is actually pretty tame compared to some of the ones I've seen, and some of the comments I've heard. Comments like, "Oh, don't worry, she might grow out if it! It might turn blonde!" (Said to my mother when I was a babe in arms) and, "Tell me, Amber, do you ever worry that your children might inherit It?" (No, do you ever worry yours will inherit your complete lack of intellect?)

The thread in question starts off with … well, with a question. A "very serious" and deeply distressing question. Our protagonist is worried that she might one day have a red haired baby. I know! I mean, aren't we all! She's been lucky so far: neither she nor her partner have the dreaded Curse, but – and here's the kicker – his mum (who hopefully never reads Handbag.com) does, and so did her gran. I mean, you can see their dilemma, can't you? They could have a redhaired baby! In fact, no, let's not mince our words here, let's say what we mean: their child could be an ugly-ass ginger!

Now, personally I'd just get sterilised and adopt, no question. That's certainly what I'm going to do, because, God, I'm ginger, and so was my gran! And my Great-Gran! I mean, any child of mine would surely be doomed, and I may as well be honest: when I tell people I don't want children, what I actually mean is "I couldn’t be so cruel as to bring another redhead into the world".

(Y'all get that I'm being sarcastic here, don't you? OK, just checking…)

It gets worse, though. Rather than simply suggesting sterliistaion, the women on the handbag forums set about very earnestly working out what the odds might be of this poor girl having "a ginger". They come to the conclusion that it's probably around 4:1. The original poster decides she can live with that. What she would have done had the odds been higher is anyone's guess.

It doesn't end there, though. Once everyone has shared their relief that our protagonist probably isn't at as much risk as she might have thought, someone comes up with the idea – and this is a stroke of pure genius, people – that in order to avoid having a baby with red hair, you could first of all have GENETIC TESTING to determine whether you carry the mutant gene. If you do, then presumably your way is clear – you don't breed.

God, I wish someone had come up with this sooner. OK, I wouldn't be here, but on the bright side, neither would any of the other "ginger mingers". We could have a world totally absent of redheads! Oooh! Oooh! I know what we could do! We could make it so that only people who have the type of colouring we deem to be "attractive" - people with blue eyes and blonde hair, say – were allowed to breed, so we had a whole society of aesthetically pleasing people! Now, I know I've heard something like that before… Where was it? Never mind, I'm sure it'll come to me…

(Right after this point was made, by the way? Someone else – someone who actually has red hair herself – posted asking if this type of testing can actually happen, because, and I quote: "I'd never forgive myself if I passed my red hair onto one of my kids." I swear I'm not making this up.)

Now, I'm not a scientist. (I’ll wait while you stop reeling in shock at that one, shall I?), so I have no idea whether it's possible for the miracle that is modern science to identify the "redhead gene" and thus rid the world of redheads. (We will be sure to slam the door on the way out.) The fact that supposedly intelligent women are even discussing this kind of idiocy on a public forum, though, leaves me gasping in horror at the depths of stupidity that some people will plumb.

The truly sad thing about all of this? This is about the fifth or sixth time I've seen this type of thread come up on a discussion forum, or even, as I've said, in normal conversation. Something I learned from a very early age is that people really don't like redheads, and they're not ashamed to say so, in the way that most people would probably think twice about voicing the same sentiment about, say, black people. I mean, just imagine it:

Original Poster:
"God, I'm so worried: my partner's mum is black! What if our baby is black too, I couldn’t stand it!"

Other Posters:
"Oooh, that would be awful, but don't worry, hun, the chances are slim, lol!"

Original Poster: "Thank God, for that! Imagine, a black baby – YUCK!"

Bright Spark: "You know, what you could do is you could be genetically tested to see if you carry The Gene that makes people black."

Idiot Poster: "Can anyone tell me if that's actually possible? You see, I am black and I would never forgive myself if I passed my black skin onto one of my kids!"

See, it would never happen, would it? No, that would be racist and unforgivable. It's fine to say the same things about us redheads, though: for one, we have no feelings – none at all – and for two, we're not a different race or anything. Hell, we're just ugly. And we all know how much fun it is to hate ugly people!

For the record, I love my red hair, and always have – yes, even when people at school called me "traffic lights". I wouldn't change it, not even when it brings out the very worst, most prejudiced part of some people. And, you know, as a wise man once said: I can dye my oh-so-ugly red hair. These people will always be stupid.

I think I'm going to start up a new clothing line. It will consist mainly of t-shirts, and they'll all say "RED AND PROUD", or maybe "I'D RATHER BE RED THAN dead A F*****G MORON". Stop me and buy one.

Pass the message on, people: the redheads will inherit the earth. And they're angry.

In Trouble With the Law

Well, it's been Scam City around here this morning. (And Spam City too, come to think of it: sixty emails this morning, only one of which was a real, honest-to-God communication from a real person. GOD.)

First came The Phone Call. Now, I've had this phone call before. It comes from an organisation - in this case 'TNT Children's Safety - who claim to be in the process of publishing a safety guide for children which will be sent out to parents at all of our local schools, and which is just crying out for my support, in the form of me spending a few hundred pounds on an advert for The Bizniss. Because, you know, saving the children is good, but cynical profiteering under the guise of "helping charity" is even better!

When we were new to business, I'd never fail to be sucked in by these people. I wouldn't actually buy an advert from them, of course - sometimes being poor has its uses - but I'd believe that they were, indeed, genuine organisations, genuinely trying to help the poor kiddies of the county. As much as I'd believe them, though, I'd also never failed to be angered by them, and the blatant guilt-tripping they'd inevitably engage in. "You don't want to buy an advert?" the caller would ask, incredulously. "But.. but... Miss McNaught, don't you care about the children?"

"Nope," I'd answer cheerfully, putting down the phone. "Ask their parents for donations! I am a hardened, child-free bitch donchya know." Well, two can play that game...

Anyway, a couple of years ago I had one such call which rapidly degenerated into the caller trying to convince me that if I didn't part with my money immediately,children would die instantly and it would ALL BE MY FAULT. In retrospect, I should have probably reported them to... someone... at this point, but the whole kidney failure thing was at its height and I decided to let it lie. More fool me. A few months later I had a phone call from the same organisation, thanking me for my generous support of their cause, and asking if I'd like to take out another advert, in their next wall planner.

Wallplanner? Support? Me? The hell?

I went into shock for a few moments (Had I somehow spent hundreds of pounds on an advert in a wallplanner, without noticing? Where had I got the money? Had they used a picture of me in the advert? What was I wearing in it?) before the penny dropped. There was no wallplanner. There was no "child safety campaign". And no, although they swore blind that I had indeed paid for it, and my advert was RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE of the planner - right in the middle, people! - there was no advert. They were trying to scam me.

I put this theory to the caller. CLICK! Brrrrrrrr......

So, today, the same thing happens, except 'TNT Children's Safety, as they're now calling themselves, had decided to skip stage one and proceed straight to stage two, with the "Gee, thanks for your advert, Amber, it was published back in May! Would you like another one?" Well, unluckily this lady (Miss Moore, if you want to speak to her. But seriously - don't.) called me before I'd had my first coffee of the day, so I went at her, all guns blazing. I'm a redhead - we get like that sometimes.

"Miss Moore" told me that I'd taken an advert back in May. I had signed for it and everything! Somehow, through the red veil of anger that was obscuring rational thought (yeah, that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) I managed to ask her to email me over the agreement so that I could see how well they'd forged my signature. She pretended not to be able to do this, and pretended not to understand what I meant when I asked her to snail mail it to me, although she did finally agree that she would send it through the post. I'm holding my breath as I write this, seriously. Then I asked her for the address and phone number of her organisation and she told me not to be silly (no, she really said that, I'm not making this up), and that she wasn't going to "waste her time reading out her address" when it would be on the mythical documentation she was going to "forget to send me" anyway.

"Well, you were happy enough to waste my time by calling me to try and scam me with this," was all I managed to get out before I was met with the now familiar CLICK! Brrrr.... Naturally, her phone number had been withheld, and a quick Google reveals that 'TNT Children's Safety' doesn't exist. Shocker.

Well, after all the drama I was in desperate need of a coffee, so I took my mug (no, not Terry, an actual mug) and headed down the stairs, stopping in my tracks as through the window I saw - THE POLICE. PARKED OUTSIDE MY HOUSE. AGAIN.

Not wanting to face the filth alone, and assuming that someone was, well, dead, I got Terry and stood on trembling legs as he opened the door. Terry was not remotely anxious about this, by the way, and the reason he wasn't worried? This is is the FIFTH TIME this year this has happened. The FIFTH TIME. Time and time again (well, five times) the police have turned up at our door looking for one David Ronald who they insist lives with us. This one time? They sent FIVE POLICE MEN to collect Mr. Ronald, and clearly didn't believe me when I said that no, it's just me, Terry and the dog (who, OK, could do with a night down the cells, but I don't think it would take five of them to take him in. Four, maybe...). I almost passed out.

This time they'd sent Good Cop and Also Good Cop, though, who immediately accepted that we weren't concealing a fugitive from the law (again, yes, there's Rubin, but what they don't know...), and told us that this time Mr Ronald had been spotted "swinging from the lampposts outside Chicago Rock". GOD. This is the kind of thing we're being connected to. WHAT MUST THE NEIGHBOURS THINK?

And, oh God, speaking of Neighbours, I think I hear the theme tune starting up...

Why Journalists Hate PRs - and Why PRs Hate Journalists

Well, I finished my Huge Project O' Doom, and have been lying in a small ball under the desk, rocking back and forth and muttering to myself ever since. Just the usual, then.

This particular project involves me receiving a couple of hundred press releases from PRs working for house builders across Scotland, which I then have to sift through to find the interesting stuff. This is made difficult by the fact that some PRs? Are crazy. Here are some actual, real-life examples of press releases I received this week:

1. Two paragraphs - no header, footer or contact details, just the two paragraphs - extolling the virtues of what sounded like a truly fabulous new development located "on the waterfront". Just which waterfront this was, however, will forever remain a mystery, because whoever wrote the press release didn't bother to include that irrelevant piece of information. It could be Edinburgh, could be Glasgow - hell, it could be Aberdeen, for all I know. Who cares! It's nice! And luxurious! And buying it would be like going on a mystery tour, never knowing where you would end up. Not that anyone could actually buy it, of course - no contact details, remember? Actually, it's a little bit unfair to single out this particular PR here, because it's amazing how many of them do this - send out press releases without mentioning where the development they're trying to promote is actually located. Amazing.
2. A press release complete with changes tracked, allowing me to see, in detail, the many redrafts it had gone through before reaching me. Interesting.
3. A copy of a company's receipt for buying advertising in the paper, complete with their credit card details. Did they want me to publish this, I wonder? Whoops, too late!
4. An email containing four pictures of houses, with the words "here they are" at the top. Uh-huh, but WHERE are they? What are they? Oh no, let me guess - two words, sounds like "boat"...
5. Numerous poorly written, almost-illiterate press releases, with such scanty details that I was forced to go to the company's website instead to try and get the information I needed.
6. A press release about a housing development in Dubai. Purpose of my articles: to discuss new developments in Scotland.
7. And, finally, at the other end of the scale, two seventeen-page press releases, containing much more detail than anyone could ever wish to know. GOD.

And this is why journalists hate PRs. Well, partly. There's also the complete inability to understand that a "deadline" really cannot be missed when you're dealing with a newspaper, and that no, "5pm on Monday" cannot safely be interpreted as "8pm on Tuesday, or, actually, whenever you feel like it, we'll wait for you!" I think the PRs have probably seen two many newsroom dramas, and have this mental image of me calling up the paper and shouting, "HOLD THE PRESS! There's a development of two bed homes in Auchterarder that we need to include!"

Last time I dealt with this particular project, I got an email with some pictures I'd asked for TWO DAYS AFTER THE PAPER WAS PUBLISHED. I was really tempted to call up the PR and say, "You know, the deadline was two weeks ago and the paper came out last weekend, but don't worry, what I'll do is, I'll reverse time and just pop it in for you, no sweat!" Because I can totally do that, you know. Such is the power of the freelance journalist.

The thing is, I have a lot of sympathy for PRs - no, really. I mean, I used to be a PR. I spent two years doing time in a press office (funnily enough, that was right around the time of the nervous breakdown), and I know that it's not easy. When I worked in PR, I hated journalists with the fire of a thousand hot suns - mostly for their habit of sitting on a story all day and then calling me five minutes before their deadline and saying, "Oh, by the way, I'm writing a story that totally knocks your company and leaves them without a name - would you like to comment?" Also because they would always refer to me as "a spokesman" when they quoted me. Swines.

So. Does anyone need a press release written, then?

I Shot the Sheriff (Court)*

GOD.

I got called for jury duty. My whole life I have dreaded being called for jury duty. Actually, no, that's a lie. There was a period when I worked in an office where I'd gladly have taken any opportunity going to, y'know, GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE for a day or two, whether that be earthquake, jury duty or other disaster. Hell, was a time back then when the fire alarm going off at the Asda-Walmart across the street was a welcome diversion. But I digress. I do that a lot. (See? SO not juror material, not me!)

I got called for jury duty. I don't have a date yet: the letter they sent me just says I will be called up within the next 12 months. So, it was a THREATENING letter, really, wasn't it? It certainly scared the crap outta me. First of all, it came in an ominous brown envelope, and Lord knows, nothing good ever comes in those. Second of all, though, it was stamped with the words SHERIFF COURT, and this is what really made my legs damn near give way.

WHAT HAVE I DONE? I though, panicked, as I made my way, like a shaky-legged colt, to the couch to tear open the offending envelope with trembling fingers. Did I get caught speeding again? Did I, I don't know, mug an old lady and forget about it? Ohmygod, do I have an evil twin who has been posing as me all this time, and who has now FRAMED ME and I will totally go to jail for a crime I didn't commit, and the doppleganger will come and live in my house and she will be the one who gets to wear the Vera Wang wedding dress? Am I watching too much Neighbours?

By the time all of this had gone through my tiny brain (SEE? I have a tiny brain! Not ideal for a juror, is it?) I was actually quite relieved to find that it was only jury duty. Not for long, though. This is the girl who fell off her bike twice in 30 seconds they're dealing with here. I mean, be honest: would you want to step into the dock and see my vacant expression staring back at you? I thought not. If these here "Sheriffs" think they're onto a good thing with the whole "Amber as responsible member of society" thing, they have another think coming.

I cannot do it. As you all know by now, I am the most indecisive person alive. Seriously, it took me, what, four hours to get dressed this morning? And that's with a closet stuffed full of absolutely nothing to wear. I am not good at deciding things. I am also easily led and also: prejudiced! Yes, prejudiced, that's a good one! Maybe if I tell them I'm prejudiced against everything, they'll let me off! And if the person on trial is either:

* Someone who is very noisy
* Someone who has recently ram raided my fence with a tonka toy
* Someone who thinks it's a good idea to park their caravan on the pavement outside my house
or
* An employee of the House of Bath**

I won't even have to lie!

In all seriousness, I really think I'm going to have to fight my way out of this one. I would actually have found it quite interesting, but the thing is, in my days as a newspaper reporter I'd cover the court all the time. Every Friday I'd head down there and sit, notebook poised, listening to tales of GBH and drink-driving. I loved it. It was one of the best bits of the job, but the thing about that? It's good to watch other people's misfortunes unfold in front of your very eyes, like a daytime TV drama. What might be a bit, well, not so good, really, would be to have to actually decide what happens to these miscreants. "Who Goes? Amber decides!" Er, thanks, but no.

In all of the cases I watched as a reporter, one thing was absolutely clear to me: I would hate to be on the jury. Because, no matter how clear-cut a case seemed to be, the defending lawyer would always, always be able to convince you that there was room for reasonable doubt. And I would believe him. (There's that whole "easily led" thing again.) I have never been much of a thinker, you see - I'm always the last to work out whodunnit. My mum and Terry are the resident Miss Marples in our family. This is why I never watch watch mystery shows with them, because after twenty minutes or so, one of them will always click their fingers and say, "God, his wife did it! It's so obvious!" I, on the other hand, will still be sitting there an hour later going, "It was Prof. Plum! In the kitchen! With the candlestick!" I actually don't think I could convict someone unless they committed the crime right in front of me. Or arrived at the court with their stereo booming out, in which case they'd be going down.

The other problem, of course, is that the swines had to wait until I was self-employed, and a few days off work could literally be the difference between paying the mortgage and being thrown out into the street, didn't they? Why could they not have called me up when I worked in an office, WHY?

Anyway, I have no idea what happens now. I get to call off if I am a social worker, if I am in the army, or if I am mad, apparently, so I need to become one of those things pretty quick. (No jokes about the last one, please, Terry has already made them all). If not, I'll just need to turn up and act crazy, which won't be too much of a stretch.

Ooh, and also: I have to give them a list of dates when I am planning to be on holiday, and they will "try" not to call me up on those dates. Will TRY, people. But what if they do not succeed? What if they call me up and it's my wedding day? I'm having images of me sitting in the jury box in a wedding dress here, and trust me, that's totally the kind of thing that would happen to me. I guess I failed the whole "are you a responsible citizen, who puts the good of society before your own selfish gains" test, huh? Shame.

* Not really.
* Who sent me a bill this morning for the waistband stretcher. That I did not get. Because, obviously I will pay for something that was mysteriously "lost in the mail", I mean, wouldn't you? Ha! See you in court, punks! Oh no, wait...

Mind The Gap

Dear Gap,

I know you like to use your own freaky sizing system for your clothes, and what a lot of fun that is. When you approach me, though, and ask if I need help with said sizing system, please feel free to take me at my word when I say "no". There is really no need to come back five minutes later and ask me the same question again.

While we're on the subject: I generally do not require assistance within seconds of walking through the door of a store. It's nice of you to care so much, but seriously, it takes at least five minutes for me to locate a pair of jeans I like, and another five to discover that although you have ten huge piles of these jeans sitting there to be rifled through, none of them are in my size. So when you assail me as I pass through your door and ask me if I need help, please try to wait at least ten minutes before asking a second time. The whole "interrupting me every couple of seconds" thing gets old really quick...

Also: why is everything size 14 in your store? WHY?

Thanks, Gap! Love you!

Amber

I mean, I really shouldn't complain. At least it's better than the stony-faced silent treatment I get in most other shops. Why, in my home town you can enter the supermarket, check through a full weekly shop, bag it all up, pay and leave - all without so much as making contact with the surly teenager on the till, let alone speaking to her! It's the misanthrope's dream. It's someone's dream, anyway. Just not mine.

Today I have three articles to write for the Edinburgh Evening News, so, naturally, what I did was, I jumped in the car and went shopping instead. I didn't buy anything. The problem with our town is that the main shopping centre is a huge designer outlet mall, which means that instead of selling real clothes, that people would actually wear, they mostly sell off old stock from two seasons ago, that wouldn't even sell then. It's either that or clothes for teenagers, in fabrics which, to quote my mum, "you could spit peas through".

The end result of all of this is that the endless hunt for new jeans continues. Because I know you're all desperately interested in this, I will keep you updated, never fear.

The main reason for today's un-shopping trip, though, wasn't the lack of a decent pair of jeans in my life, or even the need to procrastinate when faced with a deadline. No, I just had to get out of the house, and the reason I needed to get out of the house? Well, three days ago, Terry went downstairs to let the dog out, and decided to just rip up the kitchen floor while he was down there. As you do. Note the "three days ago" part of the above sentence. The kitchen floor is still in it's "ripped" condition. Yes, part of the floor has been replaced, but only part, and to a neat-freak like myself, the ensuing dust and mess that surrounds this project is just. too. much.

Terry tells me the floor will be finished "soon". Meanwhile, in my travels to the town centre, I did discover that a Starbucks has just opened there. Small mercies, and all that...