Find it here.
No, I mean, of all places, Blackpool??? Ok, I've never actually been there so it could well be a lovely little town, but... seriously!
Let's say his plans had gone smoothly and he'd annexed the whole of Europe, and he really, really needed some seaside air... he could have had France, or Italy. At least he might have had a chance to get some sun and get rid of his pasty face!
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The undecided traveller
Last year I went to Paris with my niece, my mum and her friend. Surprisingly, we had a wonderful time. Parisians have started thawing and are now more friendly than they were a few years ago (with the notable exception of the guy who sells rubbish, sorry, knick knacks, by the Opera). The credit crunch must have been biting them too, with the aid of not so socialist Sarkozi.
It rained a bit, but on the whole we had decent weather and managed to see most of the sights we had on our wish list, especially the Père Lachaise Cemetery.
None of us speaks French but Parisians seem to finally have got the message that French isn't god's own tongue, and now make an effort to understand tourists, even smiling while they do it. This lead to several miming and pointing exchanges between one or more of us and the poor shop keeper of the moment, that usually resolved themselves with the latter grabbing a piece of paper and drawing things!
Most embarrassing moment: one evening, on a taxi taking us back to our apartment, we drove past the floodlit Eiffel Tower. I'd been puzzling about why it got floodlit every night since we had arrived, and why it had those stars at the front, as I was pretty sure neither was the case on my previous visits to the city.
After a lengthy miming contest about various aspects of our trip so far (which the driver was winning as keeping his hands on the wheel didn't seem to be a priority), I enquired about the light/stars puzzle. As it turned out, my question was so dumb that try as he might he just kept missing it as it was unconceivable I didn't know. When it finally dawned on him what I was asking, he gave up all attempts at speaking a common language, threw his hands in the air and huffed: "Mais c'est la présidence de l'Union européenne!"
Awright, awright, just testing you!
Mum rang earlier this evening and mentioned we could go somewhere this summer too. She'd thought of the Italian lakes as my sister had been there last year and told her she'd like it, before adding: "Well, you know, this might be the last year it's possible...".
I pointed out to her that there's plenty of severely disable people who whizz around on wheelchairs, but I took her point: she's getting older, she has bad arthritis and finds it more and more difficult to walk as time goes by. So I suggested, that being the case, that while she's mobile we might as well traipse around Europe a bit more, as Italy would be more accessible even if it really came down to being on a wheelchair (if only 'cos she could get away with being driven around, rather than having to catch planes or trains). I also mentioned Vienna, where none of us have ever been. She seemed to like the idea, so I had a quick look around the internet for advice.
However, as I was looking, it struck me that there might be other places she also might enjoy. How about the Basque Countries, for example? Or Prague, Budapest, Warsaw... This needs some thought!
It rained a bit, but on the whole we had decent weather and managed to see most of the sights we had on our wish list, especially the Père Lachaise Cemetery.
None of us speaks French but Parisians seem to finally have got the message that French isn't god's own tongue, and now make an effort to understand tourists, even smiling while they do it. This lead to several miming and pointing exchanges between one or more of us and the poor shop keeper of the moment, that usually resolved themselves with the latter grabbing a piece of paper and drawing things!
Most embarrassing moment: one evening, on a taxi taking us back to our apartment, we drove past the floodlit Eiffel Tower. I'd been puzzling about why it got floodlit every night since we had arrived, and why it had those stars at the front, as I was pretty sure neither was the case on my previous visits to the city.
After a lengthy miming contest about various aspects of our trip so far (which the driver was winning as keeping his hands on the wheel didn't seem to be a priority), I enquired about the light/stars puzzle. As it turned out, my question was so dumb that try as he might he just kept missing it as it was unconceivable I didn't know. When it finally dawned on him what I was asking, he gave up all attempts at speaking a common language, threw his hands in the air and huffed: "Mais c'est la présidence de l'Union européenne!"
Awright, awright, just testing you!
Mum rang earlier this evening and mentioned we could go somewhere this summer too. She'd thought of the Italian lakes as my sister had been there last year and told her she'd like it, before adding: "Well, you know, this might be the last year it's possible...".
I pointed out to her that there's plenty of severely disable people who whizz around on wheelchairs, but I took her point: she's getting older, she has bad arthritis and finds it more and more difficult to walk as time goes by. So I suggested, that being the case, that while she's mobile we might as well traipse around Europe a bit more, as Italy would be more accessible even if it really came down to being on a wheelchair (if only 'cos she could get away with being driven around, rather than having to catch planes or trains). I also mentioned Vienna, where none of us have ever been. She seemed to like the idea, so I had a quick look around the internet for advice.
However, as I was looking, it struck me that there might be other places she also might enjoy. How about the Basque Countries, for example? Or Prague, Budapest, Warsaw... This needs some thought!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
You couldn't make it up :D
No, I refuse to make any Irish jokes.
After I've finished cleaning up the coffee I've spluttered all over my keyboard (nothing new there), I'll continue the blog.
...
...
...
...
...
I think I posted about a possible redundancy some time ago. I was very angry at the time, but when I sat down to think about it, I decided it wouldn't be such a bad idea - and I joined the Great Unwashed in November.
The grand plan was to wait out the redeployment period, and if things had worked out my way, I would have been sending postcards from Cuba now. The intention was to have the holiday of a lifetime to a country I've wanted to visit for donkey's years, then come back to London in time to catch the spring, refreshed and roaring to go, look around at the possibilities, and get work again. I'd gone as far as checking flights, talking to friends who've already been there, checking the Cuba tourist office looking into possible routes within the island to keep out of the tourist trail. I'd even gone as far as chatting up Cuban looking people (I kid you not) at bus stops to find out more inside information. The only thing I hadn't done was book the tickets.
But - and there always is a but, of course!
With great timing, my father had major (and sudden) life saving surgery just before my redundancy date. His aorta broke. Obviously that didn't happen in 5 minutes, it had probably been giving out for years, but he'd never, ever had the tiniest warning. Or maybe he'd had warnings, but we've since learnt that the symptoms for this kind of problem look like minor ailments: a bit of weakness now and again, indigestion, flu, that sort of thing. With my father being fit as a fiddle, very active and looking about 10 years younger than he was, and most of all only visiting the doctor for his regular check ups and never, ever for anything silly like a cold or flu, nobody would have ever thought something like this could happen. Especially because all his check ups didn't show anything, the last one only 5 months before the disaster.
Thankfully he was incredibly lucky.
He started to feel unwell when he was at home and could easily reach the phone - with him being so active and always running around like a loony, that in itself is amazing. The day after he would have been clearing local woods to prepare it for the chestnut-picking season. He would have been out in the sticks with no mobile reception. He'd have been there that very day had he not had some building work going on at his place, so he waited for the tradesman. It doesn't bear thinking about.
One of the nurses who were in the ambulances that arrived at his place shortly after the call decided to ignore the perfectly fine ECG, showing there was absolutely no problem with his heart, because she didn't like his face and what he was telling her. So they took him away. Within about three hours he was in surgery that was to last about 9 hours. Less than 48 hours after the first one, he had another 4 hours on the table. We were told he may not wake up, or, if he did, it was likely he'd have some sort of brain damage.
Apparently there are very few surgeons that can perform this operation in the whole of Italy (fewer than 10). One of them was on duty that night, at that hospital. My father woke up with no brain damage. He was in intensive care for weeks, of which over one under sedation, then in rehab for about a month, before being allowed home.
So that was it for Cuba. Instead, I spent two months in Italy with my father so he could go back to his own place as he shouldn't really be on his own. Now he can live independently, although he's constantly going for hospital appointments to monitor things as part of the aorta is still hanging by a thread and could go at any time. When that happens, the educated guess is that he won't be needing more surgery...
Anyway, 2 weeks after I came back to London, I finally got off my arse and went to the Job Centre to apply for benefits. Me being me, I had to tell them I'd been away for a couple of months (which they would never have known otherwise), so I was given an HRT (or habitual residency test). Now, I understand they've got to make sure benefits are paid to the right people, but they did have my last pay slips and P45 that showed I'd been working here for at least 13 years. They also had my bank statements showing regular direct debit payments being made for utilities.
Yet I had to answer questions such as:
- Did you bring any belongings with you to the UK? (answer: no, my belongings have been here for 20 years)
- Did you bring any money with you to the UK? (nope, my money has been held in UK bank accounts for almost as long)
But the one that really got up my nose was: did you keep in touch with people in the UK while you were away? If yes, who and how? (you mean, like the married guy I occasionally meet or frequently text as I'm his bit on the side?).
No, ok, I behaved and gave the civilised answer, but I was soooooooooo tempted!
And now I'm kind of looking forward to getting my CV sorted out so I can start looking around.
After I've finished cleaning up the coffee I've spluttered all over my keyboard (nothing new there), I'll continue the blog.
...
...
...
...
...
I think I posted about a possible redundancy some time ago. I was very angry at the time, but when I sat down to think about it, I decided it wouldn't be such a bad idea - and I joined the Great Unwashed in November.
The grand plan was to wait out the redeployment period, and if things had worked out my way, I would have been sending postcards from Cuba now. The intention was to have the holiday of a lifetime to a country I've wanted to visit for donkey's years, then come back to London in time to catch the spring, refreshed and roaring to go, look around at the possibilities, and get work again. I'd gone as far as checking flights, talking to friends who've already been there, checking the Cuba tourist office looking into possible routes within the island to keep out of the tourist trail. I'd even gone as far as chatting up Cuban looking people (I kid you not) at bus stops to find out more inside information. The only thing I hadn't done was book the tickets.
But - and there always is a but, of course!
With great timing, my father had major (and sudden) life saving surgery just before my redundancy date. His aorta broke. Obviously that didn't happen in 5 minutes, it had probably been giving out for years, but he'd never, ever had the tiniest warning. Or maybe he'd had warnings, but we've since learnt that the symptoms for this kind of problem look like minor ailments: a bit of weakness now and again, indigestion, flu, that sort of thing. With my father being fit as a fiddle, very active and looking about 10 years younger than he was, and most of all only visiting the doctor for his regular check ups and never, ever for anything silly like a cold or flu, nobody would have ever thought something like this could happen. Especially because all his check ups didn't show anything, the last one only 5 months before the disaster.
Thankfully he was incredibly lucky.
He started to feel unwell when he was at home and could easily reach the phone - with him being so active and always running around like a loony, that in itself is amazing. The day after he would have been clearing local woods to prepare it for the chestnut-picking season. He would have been out in the sticks with no mobile reception. He'd have been there that very day had he not had some building work going on at his place, so he waited for the tradesman. It doesn't bear thinking about.
One of the nurses who were in the ambulances that arrived at his place shortly after the call decided to ignore the perfectly fine ECG, showing there was absolutely no problem with his heart, because she didn't like his face and what he was telling her. So they took him away. Within about three hours he was in surgery that was to last about 9 hours. Less than 48 hours after the first one, he had another 4 hours on the table. We were told he may not wake up, or, if he did, it was likely he'd have some sort of brain damage.
Apparently there are very few surgeons that can perform this operation in the whole of Italy (fewer than 10). One of them was on duty that night, at that hospital. My father woke up with no brain damage. He was in intensive care for weeks, of which over one under sedation, then in rehab for about a month, before being allowed home.
So that was it for Cuba. Instead, I spent two months in Italy with my father so he could go back to his own place as he shouldn't really be on his own. Now he can live independently, although he's constantly going for hospital appointments to monitor things as part of the aorta is still hanging by a thread and could go at any time. When that happens, the educated guess is that he won't be needing more surgery...
Anyway, 2 weeks after I came back to London, I finally got off my arse and went to the Job Centre to apply for benefits. Me being me, I had to tell them I'd been away for a couple of months (which they would never have known otherwise), so I was given an HRT (or habitual residency test). Now, I understand they've got to make sure benefits are paid to the right people, but they did have my last pay slips and P45 that showed I'd been working here for at least 13 years. They also had my bank statements showing regular direct debit payments being made for utilities.
Yet I had to answer questions such as:
- Did you bring any belongings with you to the UK? (answer: no, my belongings have been here for 20 years)
- Did you bring any money with you to the UK? (nope, my money has been held in UK bank accounts for almost as long)
But the one that really got up my nose was: did you keep in touch with people in the UK while you were away? If yes, who and how? (you mean, like the married guy I occasionally meet or frequently text as I'm his bit on the side?).
No, ok, I behaved and gave the civilised answer, but I was soooooooooo tempted!
And now I'm kind of looking forward to getting my CV sorted out so I can start looking around.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Errrr... Lollipops?
Lollipop lollipop
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop.....
Call my baby lollipop
Tell you why
His kiss is sweeter than an apple pie
And when he does his shaky rockin' dance
Man, I haven't got a chance
I call him
Lollipop lollipop
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop.....
Sweeter than candy on a stick
Huckleberry, chimry or lime
If you had a choice
He'd be your pick
But lollipop is mine
Lollipop lollipop
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop.....
Crazy way he thrills me
Tell you why
Just like a lightning from the sky
He loves to kiss me till I can't see straight
GEE, MY LOLLIPOP IS GREAT
I call him
Lollipop lollipop
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop...
(Lyrics courtesy of St Lyrics)
Surely this is an ode to blowjobs, isn't it??
And I thought the '50s were all prim and proper!
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop.....
Call my baby lollipop
Tell you why
His kiss is sweeter than an apple pie
And when he does his shaky rockin' dance
Man, I haven't got a chance
I call him
Lollipop lollipop
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop.....
Sweeter than candy on a stick
Huckleberry, chimry or lime
If you had a choice
He'd be your pick
But lollipop is mine
Lollipop lollipop
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop.....
Crazy way he thrills me
Tell you why
Just like a lightning from the sky
He loves to kiss me till I can't see straight
GEE, MY LOLLIPOP IS GREAT
I call him
Lollipop lollipop
Oh lolli lolli lolli
Lollipop lollipop...
(Lyrics courtesy of St Lyrics)
Surely this is an ode to blowjobs, isn't it??
And I thought the '50s were all prim and proper!
Monday, February 09, 2009
Safe journey
I don't usually post political rants, but am astonished at the lack of common decency displayed by the Italian government and politicians in general with regards to the Englaro case.
This poor girl had been practically a vegetable for the past 17 years of her life (roughly half of it), with no chances of reversibility. Would *anyone* want to be kept hanging on like that? And her father, poor man. There's just no words.
But regardless of what I or others might want in the same circumstances, the *law* had clearly stated that the father had the right to request the interruption of nourishment, and since she'd told her family she wouldn't want to be artificially kept alive in a case like this (when she still could), how dare the dwarf play the pseudo-religious card to stop it from happening? And threaten local clinics to withdraw public funding if they complied with the law??? Go ahead and kick the man in the teeth when he's down, why don't you.
I don't know if you realise, but this is truly scary. We have this sorry excuse for a man here, who thinks he's god's own son, using an extremely sad human case to further his not-so-secret agenda to scrap the Constitution as it's a lot of old twaddle (ok, he didn't say it so bluntly but that's what he implied). So, let's see... first gag the magistrature; then get your friends in Parliament to make a few laws in your favour, while you're being tried for fraud and who knows what else, so the trials will be a waste of time; then rush through a decree (despite the President's refusal to sign it because it's unconstitutional - sorry, I forgot, that's old twaddle) in order to gain the Church's good will... you know, you brush my back I brush yours, sort of thing.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but the last time that happened in our geographical area, didn't we have those two other chosen guys, Sig Benito and Herr Adolf?
Terrifying.
This poor girl had been practically a vegetable for the past 17 years of her life (roughly half of it), with no chances of reversibility. Would *anyone* want to be kept hanging on like that? And her father, poor man. There's just no words.
But regardless of what I or others might want in the same circumstances, the *law* had clearly stated that the father had the right to request the interruption of nourishment, and since she'd told her family she wouldn't want to be artificially kept alive in a case like this (when she still could), how dare the dwarf play the pseudo-religious card to stop it from happening? And threaten local clinics to withdraw public funding if they complied with the law??? Go ahead and kick the man in the teeth when he's down, why don't you.
I don't know if you realise, but this is truly scary. We have this sorry excuse for a man here, who thinks he's god's own son, using an extremely sad human case to further his not-so-secret agenda to scrap the Constitution as it's a lot of old twaddle (ok, he didn't say it so bluntly but that's what he implied). So, let's see... first gag the magistrature; then get your friends in Parliament to make a few laws in your favour, while you're being tried for fraud and who knows what else, so the trials will be a waste of time; then rush through a decree (despite the President's refusal to sign it because it's unconstitutional - sorry, I forgot, that's old twaddle) in order to gain the Church's good will... you know, you brush my back I brush yours, sort of thing.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but the last time that happened in our geographical area, didn't we have those two other chosen guys, Sig Benito and Herr Adolf?
Terrifying.
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