I’m upset.
A few weeks ago, I mentioned that Terry and I would both be eligible for the swine flu vaccination when it became available: Terry because he is in a high risk group for serious complications (read: death) if he caught this flu, and me because I live with him and could pass it on.
Well, last week our area finally got some supplies of the H1N1 vaccine. And they’re refusing to give it to either of us. Terry called his doctor’s surgery three times last week. Each time he was told that, why, of COURSE he couldn’t have the vaccine! Only pregnant women can get the vaccine, because obviously only pregnant women can die from flu, d’uh!
Now, before I go any further here, I should first of all say that I’m all for pregnant women being vaccinated. Of course I am. They do seem to be at higher risk than most of us, and so obviously they should be one of the priority groups. ONE of the priority groups. Because, actually, pregnant women aren’t the ONLY people at serious risk from swine flu – or any other flu, for that matter. Absolutely not. Terry is a transplant recipient. Every day he takes immunosuppressants which basically leave him with no immune system whatsoever. A bad dose of flu could be really serious for him, and that’s not just my paranoia speaking: it’s what we’ve been told by Terry’s doctors, and it’s why he gets the regular flu jab every year.
He’s not getting this one, though. Because he’s not pregnant. On Friday, his doctor called him and said that, contrary to the information the NHS have been churning out for months now about how they will be offering the vaccination to people with chronic health conditions, where we live they will ONLY vaccinate pregnant women . Our health centre, which serves a population of tens of thousands of people, you see, was only given 100 doses of the vaccine and they’ve decided to use it on pregnant women only. (For the moment, anyway. If and when they get any more supplies of the vaccine, they might think about giving it to people with serious underlying health conditions, but only if there are no pregnant people to give it to first.)
And the reason for this?
The media.
Yes, Terry’s doctor admitted to him that although Terry is in a high risk group and should be given the vaccine, media pressure has forced the NHS here to make the decision only to vaccinate pregnant women. This is despite the following information, from the NHS’s own website :
I’m on immunosuppressants. Am I more at risk of catching swine flu?
Yes. If you take immunosuppressants you have a greater risk of becoming infected with any virus, including swine flu, and will be less able to fight it off once you have it.
That’s what they say on their website. What they say in real life, however, is basically, “Good luck with that! Hope you survive the winter!” In other words: screw you.
I’m not bothered about getting the vaccine myself at this point. I would take it if it was offered, but I agree that there are people who need it more than I do. There aren’t many people who need it more than Terry does, though, and I just can’t understand why he should be refused it just because the media says so. Hell, lots of other people with chronic health problems have ALREADY been vaccinated in other parts of the county, but where we live we’ve had to wait until November to get any vaccine at all, and even then we only get enough for 100 people, all of whom must be pregnant to qualify. And that’s fair HOW?
So, I’m pretty disgusted – to put it mildly – that, by their own admission, the NHS is more interested in what the media says about them than in actually saving people’s lives. I’m outraged to find that the media now apparently gets to make important decisions on health care. But most of all, I’m just really, really frightened about what will happen if Terry gets this bug. This is the reality of life with a transplant for us. The fear never really goes away. You don’t just get the transplant and then go back to living a normal life. You have to spend the rest of your life worrying about it, and fighting endless battles to get the care you need. We don’t even have the option of going private and paying for the vaccine (which we would resent, but would do if we had to) because the private sector don’t have it, apparently. So we’re at the mercy of the NHS once again.
Terry has emailed his consultant at the hospital and asked what, if anything, can be done now. His consultant sounded almost as shocked as we were to be told that Terry “isn’t on the priority list” and confirmed that, yes, OF COURSE he should be offered this vaccine. He’s going to look into it and see what he can do to help. I’m just hoping the answer isn’t going to be “nothing”.
* Figuratively speaking
Tagged swine flu, Terry
The coming winter has made me grumpy – grumpier than usual, I mean – and some words have started getting on my nerves again. And so it is that I present to you now, Part 2 of my occasional “Words I Have Started to Hate” series, which has expanded slightly to include phrases as well as mere words. Well, one phrase. You’re welcome, internet.
1. “hating on”
When did we start hating ON things? Why can’t we just hate them, like in the olden days, when “LOL” still meant “laughing out loud” and wasn’t just a weird kind of punctuation mark to use at the end of every sentence, lol? Also, when did it become law that as soon as you say you don’t exactly love something, everyone will be all “WAH! Stop hating on it!” Can no one have an opinion now?
2. “chillax”
A mixture of chilling and relaxing. Do you see what those clever kids did there? But, um, WHY? Why do we need a special word to denote the activity of chilling AND relaxing? I mean, can you think of a single time you were totally relaxed, but NOT “chilled”? Or a time when you were, like, totally chilled man, but not relaxed? I read a book a couple of weeks ago in which the main character kept wanting to “chillax”, and trust me, it wasn’t an ironic kind of chillaxing either. I hated on that book.
3. “sick”
If you’re actually sick, fine. I hope you feel better soon. If you’re using this word to say you like something, i.e. “This beat is sick!” (yeah, Lady Gaga, I’m looking at YOU), I’m probably hating on you RIGHT NOW. Lol.
4. “Geek/nerd”
Everyone’s a geek these days, aren’t they? Like, absolutely everyone. Because these days you describe yourself as a “geek” simply for using the internet. And you’re proud of that fact. So you will say, “I’ve been online all day. OMG, I’m such a geek, lol!” Er, no you’re not, you’re just someone who uses the internet, like the rest of us. And you’re a “nerd” – and a PROUD nerd at that – if you have any kind of hobby at all: book nerd, clothes nerd, food nerd, movie nerd, chillaxing nerd. I guess I would be a shoe nerd, although “I’m sitting here totally geeking out over my shoes” probably ISN’T something even I would say. I don’t think I’m cool enough to be a nerd, given today’s meaning of the word. And don’t get me wrong, it’s nice that the geeks and the nerds are finally having their day. They’re the Cool Kids now, and everyone seems to want to identify with them. I’m geeking out over writing this list, in fact. I’m such a blog nerd!
5. “nom”
By decree of the internet, all references to food shall henceforth be accompanied by use of the word “nom”. Extra “geek” points if you provide multiple “noms” – nomnomnom! Blame the LOLcats. They started it.
And while I’m on the subject, did you hear that CNN have started a segment called “Just Sayin’“? It’s like the Internet came to life. I fully expect them to follow up with one called “I’m Sorry, But…”, or to require all their newsreaders to use “lol” as punctuation, internet-style. “Out-of-control wildfires are raging through Athens and LA, lol!” Gah.
Over to you, then, folks: what words/phrases are you hating on right now, lol?
Tagged just sayin', lol, words I hate
Last week a comment flooded in to Hey-Dollface, from someone known to me only as ’Little Bitchy McBitcherston”. I hope she enjoys this brief moment of attention, as that is clearly something that has been missing from her life until now!
And what did Lil’ Bitchy have to say to me? She said:
“Ummm not to be mean but why do u have like scabs on ur lips?”
You know what, though, folks? Call me a cynic (I mean, I’ve been called worse. Like “scabby lipped”, for instance.), but I think Lil’ Bitchy DID want to be mean! I think she was… wait for it… lying when she said she wasn’t! Don’t you think she was probably lying? Because really, when you get right down to it, there’s never really a non-mean reason for calling someone “scabby lipped”, is there?
(These personal insults don’t bother me, by the way. I only take criticism seriously when it comes from people who actually know me and who I know have my best interests at heart. When it’s random kids who can’t spell, I take it for what it is: a pathetic attempt to be a little bitch. And I delete it. Oh, and I don’t have “like scabs” on my lips either. Or even just regular scabs. Just so’s you know.)
But what never fails to make me laugh about these stupid insults is the way people will always first of all make a transparently insincere attempt to pretend that they’re not just being a bitch. Seriously: “not to be mean, but…” That’s hilarious! What’s the point of even PRETENDING you don’t want to sound mean when you’re about to accuse someone of having “like scabs” on their lips? I mean, you may as well just admit it, right? It’s not like the person who receives that message is going to think, “My God, this person says I’m a scabby lipped ho! Oh no, wait… she says she’s not being mean! Whew!” is it?
And there are so many stupid little phrases like that. I’ve already mentioned the classic, “Sorry, but…” YOU’RE NOT SORRY! Don’t try to pretend you are! Just admit to yourself that you’re trying to make a complete stranger on the internet feel bad, and that that’s how you get to feel better about yourself. It will save you a fortune in therapy later!
Then there’s the rest. Last week, for instance, I was hit with, “I don’t want to burst your bubble, but…” And the thing about that? I didn’t even HAVE a bubble at the time! No, really, I didn’t. (It was a post about a new skin cream, and I think a lot of the time, people confuse “me blogging about something” with “me caring deeply about something”, though, which perhaps isn’t their fault) But if I DID have a bubble, you can be sure that person wanted to burst it for me. Oh, he may have SAID, “I don’t want to burst your bubble,” but what he MEANT was, “Excuse me, is this your bubble? Do you mind if I just… *BANG!*”
Basically, any phrase containing the word “but” is almost guaranteed to have me rolling my eyes. That and “Just sayin’”, which is a variation on this theme that’s used at the end of the insult rather than at the start of it and means, “I’ve just been a complete asshole, but, you know, just sayin’.”
Or how about “I’m just being honest!”, the clarion-call of the Big Brother generation. Let me tell you something: honesty is not always the best policy. You don’t actually NEED to tell someone you think they’re ugly, for instance. It doesn’t achieve ANYTHING, other than to make you look like an asshole. I, for instance, already know exactly what I look like. I see myself in the mirror every morning. I’ve known myself for … a while. I don’t need you to point out my flaws. Chances are, I already know what they are. Did your mother never tell you that drawing attention to other people’s flaws is rude? And makes the baby Jesus cry? And then Bichons come and bite your bum, and trust me, you do NOT want Bichons to come and bite your bum? DID SHE?
 Bum-Biting Bichon These people are not sorry.What they’re saying is, “I’ve noticed that you’re not perfect [and hey, who is?] and I’m worried that you might not feel quite bad enough about it, so I’m sending you this email/comment to make sure that you DO feel bad about yourself. Like I do.” That says a helluva lot about them, but it doesn’t actually say anything at all about me. My bubble remains intact.
Umm, where was I? Oh yeah, Bitchy McBitcherston, and all of the many, many other people like her recently, who try to make themselves feel better about their own problems in life by going out of their way to try to make a random stranger feel bad. I have a message for those people. To paraphrase a much better writer than me: my scabby lips* will heal. But you trolls will probably always be nasty little bitches. I know I’d rather have the scabby lips than the personality disorder any day.
*Note: totally don’t have scabby lips. No, really.
Tagged OMG internet drama!
(Note: this was actually written yesterday, but wasn’t posted because – hey! – NO INTERNET. Since then I’ve emailed a complaint to two different people at Virgin Media, but haven’t had a response.)
So, the Virgin Media engineer who was booked to come out to us today to fix our internet? Isn’t coming. Because Virgin cancelled the appointment. Thirty minutes before it was due to happen, because obviously our time isn’t important AT ALL, is it? Hell no, we can change our plans for you, Virgin Media, but don’t worry about letting us down at the last minute or anything, we’re only customers, after all!
And the reason they’re not sending the engineer? They’ve decided there is a “network issue in our area”. Well, it’s great you could finally join us in the “People Who Knew There Was a Network Issue in the Area” club, Virgin Media, because we told you that on Friday. It was obviously a network issue. The fact that it’s taken them FIVE FULL DAYS to work that out – five full days during which we’ve only occasionally been able to access the internet – is just unacceptable to me. If it takes them five days to work out there’s an issue affecting a whole area, then it doesn’t really inspire much confidence in them, does it?
So. Five days without the internet. Two missed appointments. Huge disruption to our lives and business. And the next time the weather’s hot, it’ll probably happen again (one of the many, many people we’ve spoken to over the past few days confirmed that there’s an issue connected to “hot” weather.). Obviously we realise that sometimes things go wrong: as Terry says, it’s how the company deals with those things that matters, and, once again, Virgin Media are doing a fantastic job of convincing me they really don’t give a crap about their customers.
I think it’s time to start investigating new ISPs…
Tagged virgin media
They say you learn something new every day, and today I learned something about me. I learned I am “cold, calculating, sad and mad.” Also “lacking in essential humanity”. Oh, and just plain “weird”. Can’t forget that one!
Why am I all of these things, I hear you ask? (OK, not really, but let’s pretend.) Because I don’t want to have children. And according to a certain columnist for the Daily Fail Mail (a newspaper I hate with every fibre of my being), this makes me all of the above, and more.
I read Carol Sarler’s piece on Why bosses are right to distrust women who don’t have children this morning (I know, I should know better to read anything in the Mail, but there was a link on Twitter, I clicked…), and spent the next ten minutes or so ranting angrily to anyone who would listen (sorry, Terry and Rubin) about how women like Carol are the reason we’ll never have true equality with men: because as long as women insist on putting so much time and energy into tearing each other down, calling each other names and being holier-than-thou about every little choice other women make, we’ll always just seem like a bunch of cats fighting in a sack. And we will never, ever be taken seriously.
Here’s the part where I prove my point by tearing Carol Sarler down and being holier-than-thou. But where to start?
How about at the very beginning:
“Much as I like to trumpet the importance of a woman’s right to choose all things at all times, [says Carol] there’s one choice I simply cannot understand: the choice of an otherwise sane and healthy woman not to have children…if she says she hasn’t a shred of maternal feeling in her, moreover, if she says she would prefer to concentrate on her career and that a child would only get in the way of it, then my head might acknowledge her right to do so. But my heart whispers: ‘Lady, you’re weird.”
Continue reading →
Tagged childfree, feminism, Rants, work
Following on from my post about telephone etiquette, I thought of some more random things that annoy me about the way people use the phone. So here they are:
1. People who send text messages during gym classes, or answer their phones. Come on, it’s ONE HOUR, surely you can survive that long without using the phone? I mean, I manage to last that long without checking my email, and I check my email constantly, so I know you can do it too. Fair enough if you have an emergency, but some people at our gym answer their phones during every single class, and they’ve never once had to leave the class as a result of what was said to them on the phone/by text message, so I’m going to assume it wasn’t THAT much of an emergency.
2. People who answer the phone while you’re visiting them, and then have a long conversation with the person on the other end, while you sit there looking on like a dumbass. Extra points if the person frequently roars with laughter while pointing to their handset and making faces to indicate that “OMG, this is the Best! Phonecall! Ever!” If I wanted to sit silently staring at the wall for half an hour, I’d do it at home, thanks. Is it really so hard to say, “Look, I have company right now, I’ll call you later”? Apparently.
3. Retail workers who answer the phone when there’s a long line of people standing waiting to pay. The people who are actually IN your store waiting to buy something should come before the one who calls to ask you eighteen questions about your stock. If you must answer the phone to them (and I understand it’s annoying to let the phone ring), THEY’RE the ones who should be put on hold.
4. People who phone you to tell you they’ve just sent you an email.
5. People who phone you five minutes after sending you an email to ask why you haven’t answered it yet.
6. A possibly controversial one, but: people with a non-urgent enquiry who call your home phone and, getting no answer, immediately call your mobile. If I’m not at home, I’m out. If I’m out, I’m probably busy doing something. If I’m busy doing something, I probably don’t want to be disturbed while I’m doing it. (And yes, I know the whole point of MOBILE phones is so that people can reach you when you’re, er, mobile, but I still view this as an “only if you really HAVE to speak to me rightthatveryminute” thing. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but this need for near-constant communication just irks me.)
7. People who use their phones in movie theatres. Seriously, that should be an arrestable offence.
8. People who phone you about a work-related matter you’ve specifically asked them to email you about. And then say, “I know you asked me to email you, but I thought it would be easier if I just called instead.” Well, it may be easier for YOU, but it’s not easier for me. That’s why I asked you to email me. If it was easier to do whatever -it-is by phone, I’d have asked you to phone me. (This doesn’t happen so much now, but when I used to freelance, I much preferred people to put the instructions for their project in writing, so I could be totally clear about what they wanted, and so they couldn’t come back to me two weeks later and say, “oh, but I really wanted you to do it THIS way…” It was fine for them to have an initial phonecall to discuss the thing, obviously, but when it came to them giving me long lists of complicated instructions, I needed them in writing, because no, it just wasn’t easier for me to struggle to write them all down/remember them with the phone lodged beneath my chin and the person talking nineteen-to-the-dozen on the other end.)
9. People who phone you really late at night. Look, it’s nice that you were thinking of me, but if it’s later than about 10pm, I’m going to assume someone just died.
10. People who call you really early in the morning. And then say, “Oh, sorry, were you sleeping?” Well, it’s 8am on a Sunday morning and I’ve been working all week, so… yeah. Extra points if they then smugly say, “Oh, I’ve been up for HOURS, I just can’t lie in bed all day!”
11. People who call you and then eat something noisily with their mouth right next to the receiver. If there was a “detonate” button on the phone, I’d use it on these people.
Any more?
Tagged phones
One morning last week, Terry and I returned home from the gym to discover the light on the answerphone flashing. Amongst the usual work-related messages that had been left (for Terry, obviously, not for me. Because I don’t actually “do” phone calls.) was a message from a Mystery Woman. “Please call me back,” said the Mystery Woman, in heavily accented English, before giving her number and then hanging up. It was actually quite thrilling, to be honest, like the start of an adventure novel which sees our intrepid, titian haired heroine travel the world, battling against the clock to solve the Mystery of the Mysterious Caller. Oh no, wait… I’m confusing myself with Nancy Drew again. Sorry. Where was I?
So, the Mystery Woman left her number. And that was it. No salutation, no indication of who she was, or what she was calling about – nothing to even tell us which one of us she was trying to reach. I mean, it could have been Rubin for all we knew. He gets a lot of calls like that: some of his friends have no manners AT ALL, really.
Well, Terry and I thought about this for about two seconds (and I Twittered about it, obviously), and decided that, nah, if it was THAT important to her, she’d surely call back. And she did. And do you know who our Mystery Caller was?
She was a telemarketer.
Yes, she wanted US to call HER, so she could try and talk us into buying something we didn’t want or need. Seriously, how cheeky is that? Very cheeky, I’d say. It’s bad enough that they call us all day long (Yes, we signed up to the Telephone Preference Service, but it doesn’t apply to business numbers, which ours is, and it also doesn’t stop people calling you from foreign call centres.) but expecting us to call them back? Seriously?
I thought this was a one off. But then yesterday night, an email flooded in. The subject line said “Can you call XXXXX?” (Company name removed to protect the very guilty) The body of the email contained… well, nothing, actually, other than the email signature of the person who sent it, which included the person’s phone number.
Well, of course I COULD phone that company. But the thing is, I didn’t want to. Not with my new knowledge of the way certain telemarketers have apparently started to operate, anyway, and actually, not before then either, to be honest, because I think it’s just horribly rude for a complete stranger to demand that you call them without saying why. No?
Instead, I emailed the person back to ask why they wanted to speak to me. This one turned out NOT to be a telemarketer. He was, however, a journalist who wanted my help (in the form of some quotes) for an article he was writing, and he went about asking for this help in just about the rudest way possible – and I say this as a former journalist myself. My rule of thumb when dealing with people like this is that if they can’t be bothered to be even reasonably polite when they’re asking for my help I can’t be bothered to help them. So I stopped replying to his emails, and when I got home from the gym this morning, I discovered that he had tried to call me no less than nine times. NINE. TIMES. Because, as we all know, if someone is out when you call them, phoning back repeatedly, at three minute intervals, is the best way to make them magically re-appear. Only not really, obviously.
The lesson in all of this? It pays to be polite. Also, if we didn’t have to have a phone for business reasons, I’d throw ours out of the window. Twice.
Tagged email fun, phones
Last week Terry and I were in the car, on the way to the gym, when we saw a woman with brown hair jogging along by the side of the road.
So we rolled down the car windows and shouted, “HEY! BRUNETTE! F&^%^*$ BRUNETTE! YOU’RE UGLY!” And then we jeered a bit more and drove on. If we see her again, we’ll try and kick her, though, because that would be even more awesome.
Hee! Honestly, it was so funny, you should’ve seen the look on her face! I don’t know why she was annoyed, though. I mean, has she not got a sense of humour? And the fact is, there was absolutely nothing wrong with what Terry and I did, because brown hair IS ugly. It just is. (Especially on men. It can sometimes look OK on women, but on men it’s just butt-ugly. I’d never date a brunette man, never. I would rather eat glass.) Everyone knows it, so why shouldn’t we say it? It’s just a plain fact, isn’t it? Brunettes are ugly. It’s funny to tease them. If they don’t like it, they should either:
a) Get a sense of humour
b) Dye their hair
Actually, come to think of it, they should probably dye their hair anyway. Why wouldn’t they? If I was a brunette I would dye it. Terry’s hair is black, but sometimes I think it can look a bit brunette in certain lights. I worry about it. It’s why we don’t have children, actually: who’d want to risk the chance of having a brunette? It wouldn’t be fair to the child and I just don’t think I could love a brunette anyway. Thank goodness they’re dying out, eh?
Just in case it’s not obvious, I’m being sarcastic here. And of course, Terry and I didn’t hurl abuse at anyone from our car just because they happened to have a certain hair colour – or for any other reason, obviously. Because that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? And cruel. And it would make us a couple of assholes. Really.
Continue reading →
Tagged Gingerism, red hair
I’ve mentioned here before that while the street Terry and I live in is as pleasant and suburban as it gets, some of the areas around us… aren’t. Well, they don’t call our part of town “Bandit Country” for nothing, put it that way.
 Where we're livin' Just yesterday, for instance, I met a group of the local Bandits while I was out walking Rubin. The Bandits in question were mostly in their late teens/early twenties, and they were sitting in a little huddle outside the Ghetto Superstore, drinking. You’d think it would be too much of a cliché for me to say they were drinking Buckfast, wouldn’t you?
People, they were drinking Buckfast.
You’d also think it was too much of a cliché for me to say they had a pit bull terrier with them, no?
*Deep sigh*
As soon as the pit bull laid eyes on Rubin, of course, it went crazy. In fact, before I knew what had happened, it was over beside us “worrying” at Rubin. Now, I should say here that it wasn’t barking or growling, or anything like that. For all I know, this might’ve been the friendliest pit bull in all the land, but I didn’t really want to take the chance on that, and because Rubin likes to think he’s a wolf (he completely ignores small dogs, but will often bark ferociously at larger ones, because… well, because he was born without a brain, obviously), I was frightened enough by the dog’s attentions that when it still hadn’t left us alone a few minutes later, I snatched Rubin into my arms and… ran off like a girl.
Only at this point did the Youth of Today dispatch a Junior Bandito (about 8 years old, I’d say) to call off the hound.
So, that’s the kind of thing we’re dealing with.
Because I never learn, though, I decided to take Rubin on the exact same walk today. In my defence, it’s pretty much the only place I CAN walk him without having to get in the car and drive somewhere, and I rarely have time for that, so Bandit Country it is. I was about ten minutes into the walk, Rubin almost hysterical with joy by my side, when I became aware of the sound of a bicycle, directly behind me.
I was on a footpath at this point, and there were no actual roads nearby, but people often cycle on the footpaths round here, so I thought nothing of this, and moved to the side of the (wide) footpath to let it pass.
The bike moved with me.
I moved even closer to the side, until my arm was brushing the branches of the trees which grow along the pathway.
The bike moved too.
At this point it struck me that this bicycle was moving very, very slowly, given that it was able to stay behind me, at my slow walking pace. It could also have passed me at any time: the path is a wide one, and I hadn’t exactly been filling it up even before I moved.
Clearly, then, it was following me. Great.
I glanced over my shoulder, and sure enough, there he was: another Junior Bandito (not the Pitt Bull handler, this time), grinning unpleasantly as the front tyre of his bike almost brushed my heels. I’m no good at estimating people’s ages, but I’d say he was probably 10 or 11. Young, but old enough to know better than to harass people in the street, I’d say.
I decided the best thing to do here would be to ignore him, so I looked away and continued walking.
“HEY! UGLY!” the bandit called.
At this point all I can say is that something snapped in my head. Because, honestly, I’ve HAD IT with people thinking it’s perfectly OK to insult and harass each other. ENOUGH.
So I stopped dead in my tracks (he almost ran into me) and turned round to face him.
“Did you say something? ” I asked pleasantly.
Well, the bandit almost fell off his bike. The look that crossed his face was almost comical as his brain struggled to register the fact that the worm had apparently turned.
“No,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “I didn’t say a thing.”
“That’s strange,” I said, still calm. “I’m sure I heard you say something to me. What was it?”
The kid quaked. He clearly had no idea how to deal with this, so he decided to go with denial. Nope, he’d said nothing, not him. Why, he was just riding along on his bike, minding his own business!
“Well, there’s no one else here,” I said, “So I’m pretty sure it was you. What did you say?”
“I just said hello,” blurted the bandit. “That was it.”
“Really?” I said, puzzled. “That’s funny: you just told me you didn’t say anything. So now you’re telling me you DID say something: is that right?”
Silence. Pinned into a corner by his lies (I should totally be a crime writer, right?), the bandit had no choice but to get on his hoss bike and get out of town. Unfortunately for me, he managed to do the first bit OK, but, once on his bike (he’d jumped off for our “chat”) he decided to go back to following me, albeit at a slightly further distance this time.
“GINGER!” he shouted this time.
So I turned round and karate chopped him. No, OK, I didn’t. But I did turn round, and, once again, the kid almost fell off his bike in fright. You’d think he’d have learned the first time, no?
“Ah, so you DO have something to say to me!” I beamed. “I thought so! But I didn’t quite hear you. Tell you what, why don’t you come and say it to my face, rather than waiting until my back’s turned? That would be the brave thing to do, don’t you think?”
No, I have no idea why I was talking like this to a child. I mean, clearly it wasn’t exactly my finest hour, and equally clearly, I wouldn’t have been nearly so brave had he been just a little bit older. Of if he’d had The Friendliest Pit Bull in All The Land with him. But, like I said, I’m absolutely sick of not being able to walk my dog close to my own home without being taunted and harassed by idiot kids. This has happened several times now, the worst time being when I was held at branch-point in the woods, and had to phone the police. And although this was a young ‘un, I still think he was old enough to learn that following strange women in the street and calling them names is not a pleasant thing to do. And that sometimes, when you choose to do this, you just might get yourself in trouble.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the words themselves that bother me. I am not so insecure that a child calling me “ugly” will make me feel I actually AM ugly (Sorry, blog commenters who say more or less the same thing!), and the “ginger” thing is just stupid. It’s the fact that people today apparently think it’s OK to taunt strangers in the street IN ANY WAY that makes my blood boil. To follow people, and call them names, and to then try to deny it is stupid and cowardly in the extreme, and I don’t care if you’re eleven or eleventy-one: if you behave like that towards someone, you should expect to get called on it.
I know lots of people would give the old, “Ah, but they’re only kids!” argument, here, but that one won’t wash with me, sorry. If they’re old enough to be out in public unsupervised, then they’re old enough to be taught that it’s not nice to follow people and be rude to them. If your kid ISN’T old enough to understand that message, then you keep him under supervision until he is: simple. Quite apart from anything else, it’s pretty damn dangerous for kids to do this kind of thing, because while the worst thing I’d ever do would be to tell them off, if they pick on someone a little more aggressive, they could end up in some serious trouble.
So I told the bandito all of this. At length. And … he turned and ran away. “Leave me alone!” he sobbed, jumping off his bike a few metres down the path.
“I don’t really see why I should,” I said, reasonably. “I mean, you haven’t been leaving ME alone, have you? You’ve been following me and calling me names, so maybe I’ll just follow YOU now, and call you some names, how would you like that?”
He wouldn’t, was the answer. And he agreed to stop following me if I just stopped talking. So I did. And you know, that little Bandit was as good as his word. I like to think he will grow up to be a better Bandit now: a Bandit with a basic understanding of how to behave in public, and why it’s Not Nice to follow people and shout names at them. And thus, a new era of peace will be forged between the Banditos and the ordinary people of Bandit Country, all thanks to me.
Actually, I know I’ll just be lucky if my windows don’t get broken next time I’m out. Such is life.
(ETA : not that it particularly matters, but in the interests of accuracy, this all actually happened on Saturday -I wrote the post then, but then totally forgot to publish it. Ooops.)
Tagged Gingerism, I See Stupid People, red hair, redheads, the ghetto
Dear Charity Collectors,
I already give to charity every month. I give to charities I have chosen, and I do it by direct debit. As much as I’d love to give more money, to more charities, if I gave to everyone who came knocking on my door begging for money, I’d end up in need of charity myself, pretty damn soon. Also, I don’t keep money in the house anyway.
This is why I really dislike it when you come to my home to ask for money. It’s nothing personal, and I understand why you do it, but I don’t like people intruding into my time uninvited, no matter how good they feel their cause may be. I will decide who I give my money to. I will decide when and how I give it, and I don’t really enjoy feeling like I have to justify myself to random strangers who come knocking on my door.
I don’t like it, but of course I put up with it, as long as the charity collectors in question aren’t pushy about it and as long as they clear off when I ask them to.
When you do knock on my door, though, and I send you away empty handed (or when Terry does it, as the case may be), I expect you to STAY AWAY. I do not expect you to turn up again an hour later and repeat your request for money. And I certainly don’t expect you to say, “Oh, are you still watching TV?” when you’re told once again that your presence on the doorstep is not welcome.
Oh, and when the TV show I’m watching is something important, like, say, the inauguration of the new leader of the free world, I REALLY don’t appreciate your presence on my doorstep for the second time in one day.
This is why if you show up at my door one more time, I will be contacting the charity you represent and making a complaint. And my dog will bite your bum. Just FYI.
Yours,
The Girl Who Will Never Give You Any Money Now
Tagged charity collectors
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