Still Spinning

Q: What do libraries and supermarkets have in common?

A: When I arrive at both these places, I always find myself desperately needing to empty my bladder when I fully intended to browse round leisurely.

So, why is that?

And why don’t libraries provide toilet facilities? 

The wedding was held in an old village-community church. There was a plaque on the door which told of its entry in the Doomsday Book, so I was looking forward to experiencing a piece of history. The church itself was actually very nice, and on the hot sunny day, it was cool and tranquil.

After a quick glance around, and we spotted friends to sit with, and went to take up pews on the bride’s side. There was some chatter going on, and we joined in, commenting on how few people we knew, and generally catching up with people we’d not spoken to for a while. An usher handed us an Order of Service booklet, which I noted was fairly weighty, but didn’t think much of it.

Suddenly the church organ sprung into life, and the wedding march started playing, followed by the arrival of the bride and her father, and about 8 bridesmaids, all dressed in beautiful red strapless dresses. We all stood, and the lady vicar addressed us all, welcoming us to the church and asking us to be seated. She explained that the whole service, including hymns was in the Order of Service so that we could read along with the ceremony.

We sat. I flicked through the TWENTY-SEVEN pages of the Order of Service. It was more a Wedding Manual than an Order of Service, really. The so-called Hymns were not songs I recognised, but, I thought, once the tune is apparent, I’m sure we’ll be able to sing along.

I was so, so wrong.

The service was very traditional – making it clear that marriage should be between a man and a woman - and no-one else - that the couple’s purpose would now be to have and bring up children in god’s light, and that this was it. There was no escape. Interspersed with various lectures from the vicar, we had to stand up and try to sing the ‘hymns’. We gave up. From somewhere behind a pillar some musicians appeared with tambourines, electric guitars and microphones. They stood, with eyes closed, swaying to the music, singing as only emotionally-overcome people can, filling their lungs with the Holy Spirit and praising god. We in the heathen section, stood with wedding manual open, silent. The tune wasn’t one you could pick up as you went along like proper school assembly hymns – oh no, this was quite something else. I used the time everyone else was singing to have a quick look round the congregation. About 85% of the room was singing along and most of them didn’t even need the written words – they already knew the songs intimately. Eyes closed, swaying along, I realised I had been transported back to the middle-ages. This wasn’t quite the historical experience I was expecting! As I looked around, I noticed something else which disturbed me – all the singing women in the church looked the same. Incredibly slim, with long (at least shoulder-length) straight blonde or very light-brown hair. Either the church had a cloning machine, or everyone here was related to everyone else. There were no ugly people, either. Weird.

Anyway, we sat down and stood up more times than I care to remember. After about 45 minutes, Holy Communion was announced, and every row was led off to the front (just like assembly!) to receive their body and blood of Christ like the brainwashed children of god that they were. The heathens and homosexuals (for we had some of those in our heathen section too) stayed put in our pew, and others made disapproving faces at us. I wasn’t bothered at all. We’d been ostracised by the lack of popular hymns already, so I wasn’t going to feel pressured into taking part in some weird cult-like ceremony I didn’t believe in!

Then there were more vows to come, with particular emphasis on there being a marriage of three, like a rope of three strands that is stronger and cannot easily be broken, of bride, groom and Jesus. I wanted to vomit. The remaining bits included the vicar reciting paragraphs, and the congregation reciting paragraphs back – just like a scene from Monty Python’s Life of Brian. (‘No, No. No – you don’t need anyone to tell you want to do! You’re all individuals!!’ “Yes, we are all individuals” say the multitude in unison…). I was just shaking my head in disbelief that this could still be going on at a time when we understand about DNA and space-travel, but there was no stopping them. Songs and then readings followed, with some of those poor people doing readings, struggling to read. During these moments, with the pressure on and all eyes on the readers, as they stumbled quietly over the bible excerpts, religious children had their say. The ran around, they screamed and shouted, dropped their toys, grizzled and made a fuss, but no-one took them out or told them off. Maybe they were waiting for Jesus to do it. Who knows? I got quite annoyed at that stage. Anyway, musical interludes then took place (more tambourines) while the register was signed, and an hour and quarter after we started, we were finally released. My bottom was numb, and I was wondering whether I might be entitled to some kind of counselling or compensation. After the photos in the lovely sunshine, I hoped we had escaped the religious stuff. I was wrong again.

We travelled to the reception venue, took drinks onto the patio and waited for the final photos to be taken. Then we were ushered into the dining-room for a well-deserved meal. All went well until the Bride’s Father did his speech. Now – Bride’s Fathers’ speeches tend to follow a general format – embarrassing attempts at humour, the odd good joke, lots of praise for the daughter, gaining a son etc. We know the drill. It began this way, and I thought we’d be home and dry. Then he got his guitar out, and sang a song he’d composed himself about his daughter. If it had been me getting married, I’d have wanted the ground to open up and swallow me…..

After the song, things turned to Jesus. I felt the urge to bolt, but I was too near the front, and it was too difficult to escape unnoticed, so I sat and took it, but I was getting annoyed. He was saying with real conviction and almost disgust in his voice, about how marriages of two can seem to work, but they can never  really work without Jesus. I glanced across at Badger, who rarely gets annoyed about anything, and could tell he was seething quietly too. It was just too much. A menage a trois works better? Eh???

Narrow-minded, unforgiving people the Christians. I can never work it out.

Still, more religious references to come in the Groom’s and Best Man’s speeches, but these were fairly bearable. I couldn’t wait to get outside and talk to the others, out of the watchful eye of God. (He doesn’t know my name, I’ve not been christened!). The rest of the evening went off like any other wedding, really – dancing, drinking, chatting. You know the score.

As I sat, drinking my diet coke, watching some formally-dressed kids chasing about the grounds and acting like little bastards, a philosophical question occurred to me. Why do the most religious people have the naughtiest children?

….with the fairies  ….on holiday for the week.

See you next weekend ;o)

Spaniel xx

All I did was ring BT to find out where the equipment they had told me they’d ordered for me had got lost, as a month had gone by and I’d seen not hide nor hair of the thing.

If they’d told me that they had forgotten to order it, and it hadn’t yet been sent out, I’d have been OK with that. I wouldn’t have even been annoyed - I’d have got it ordered and been on my way.

But No.

BT went to great lengths to take a fairly amenable customer, who so far had been really happy with their service, and piss them off so much that they made a formal complaint. I made 5 calls to BT altogether, and one to a courier who had never heard of me. I got cut-off twice, re-routed 4 times and sent on a fool’s errand once.

I’m not easy to piss off, but, my, was I angry by the end of it.    

I’m now waiting for the trained apologist (or whatever) from customer service to ring me in connection with my complaint, so I can tell them, in a constructive way, what they should be doing about their service.

I’ll let you know.

In the meantime, has anyone got any BT horror stories?

Dear Miss N,

Considering the attitude you had to your work and fellow colleagues, one would be forgiven for thinking you’d be quite pleased to have been released from your contractual obligations, though I quite understand that being dismissed never feels like a positive experience at the time. I also accept that you felt the need, due to your woefully inadequate understanding of computers, to appeal the decision to terminate your contract. When you knew that you would be facing a hearing to state your case to stay in employment, or else, to justify claiming compensation from the company, you should have concentrated on the facts of the original case, and any mitigation you might have been able to produce in order to save your dignity. However, you instead decided that distracting the panel with a poorly-constructed grievance would suffice, and that, my dear, is where you let yourself down once again.

Having had the original decision to dismiss you upheld by the appeals panel, you persisted with your grievance, which was foolish. In my considered opinion your grounds for complaint are childish, badly thought out and smack strongly of playground tantrums and sour grapes. You have nothing to gain from this escapade but causing more chaos and disruption in your wake, and since you have chosen to pursue it, I cannot see that there is any other reason for you to do so, but to hurt as many people as you can.

The gentle people you left behind, who tried to like you, and did their best to tolerate your sullen and obstructive behaviour, are the ones who suffered most. They are exhausted and cynical, tired and broken. They were not the best managers in the world - their fault is that they tried to be nice when they should have been harsh. You should be ashamed at your behaviour, and remorseful about the pain and suffering you have caused - but I fear that you care about nothing and no-one but you.

One day you will learn that what you give out you get back.

Good luck, Miss N. You will need it, where you’re going.

Yours sincerely,

Spaniel

I remember being very new to school, in a big new classroom with a smiling new teacher, and lots of other little people like me. I was 4 and a half, and starting to make my way in the world. I remember quite  few things from this age, I remember playing with the water-wheel in the big tub of water outside. I remember digging in the sandpit, wearing sandals. I remember learning to tie my shoelaces using a big card, threaded with orange string. I also remember the feeling of claustrophobia when I crawled into a big plastic barrell (some of our play-things back in the early 80’s) and I couldn’t get out because two other kids crawled in from each end, and I panicked. I remember hair-pulling and name-calling that happened to other people in the playground. I remember making daisy-chains in the sun and sneezing when the grass got cut.

It was a generally nice place to be, if a little bit overwhelming at times. But there was structure and order and behaving yourself and playing nicely with other people - and I liked it.   

26 years later, I’ve come back to that place. The behaviours aren’t much different, but the ages of the other kids are. My week has been like being at school again because:

One man got told off for being nasty about someone else and doing an impression of him that made out he was some kind of monkey.

One lady got told off for locking her children in the car in the carpark.

One lady got told off for whingeing and whining because she had a tantrum and didn’t get her own way.

One man got sent home because he was showing people rude pictures.

One lady got told off because she wasn’t doing her work properly, and then she cried and cried so much she had to go home. Now she’s pretending that she’s not well, so she won’t come back to school work.

One lady is pretending to be mad so she doesn’t have to come to school, but we know she’s not really mad. She’s just stuck two pencils up her nose and is wearing her knickers on her head. We’ve asked her to come back to school, but she keeps saying no. We’re going to give her place to someone else soon, and then she’ll never be able to come back.

One lady wants to stay in school even though she isn’t allowed to. We’re sending her home, but she keeps crying.

Kids seem like a doddle compared to this lot. Anyone want to swap their job for mine? 

I’ve told a similar story in the past, but I can’t find it in my last year’s archive, so I’m guessing you’ll not remember it. Here goes:

When I was a child, I wished that I had a super power. Something wonderful that would make a huge difference to other people, and I could help them with my special gift of telepathy or invisibility or teleportation - or something. As much as I wished, I knew in my head that it wasn’t ever going to happen, because life’s not like that. Magic powers are the stuff of comic books and fantasy, and nothing more.

As I got older, I began to realise that I’d been searching in the wrong places for the magic. Someone was not going to bestow the super power upon me in a dramatic scene worthy of a cinema film, rather that it would slowly grow and blossom within me over time.

Of course I could not fly, or spin webs from my wrists, or speak to angels - but I do get a wonderful sense of joy and satisfaction when the magic works.

It took me a long time to realise that my special talent is people. I can read them. Not in some weird fortune-teller way - ‘cross my palm with silver, luvvie’ ; no - I just seem to know how to work with people to get the best from them. Something is at work that I cannot understand. All I have to do is be there, observing them and interacting with them and they respond in a positive way, whether child or adult. I think about what people say and do, I notice subtle changes in body language and expression, and I seem to do it without thinking about it - but it works. I have noticed a dramatic change in people within a very short time of talking to them. I know it isn’t really magic, but it feels like it sometimes!

Today was a good example. A bunch of people who so far had been learning a lot of theoretic background and activities that they then had to put together into a practical situation and were struggling with it. They were full of self-doubt, they were nervous and it was spreading rapidly from one person to another. I could tell the panic was spiralling out of control. The more they talked about it, the worse they made eachother feel. So I intervened. All I did was get them to see something in a different way, and gave them a relevant example in a positive, confident way, and got them to believe they could achieve it too.

But it worked. They tried it, and eventually left smiling, having enjoyed the day.

I do have Magic Powers. You just can’t see them.

xx

I have a feeling this will be a saga comprising many episodes. It has taken me a little while to get to the point of being able to describe sufficiently the frustration I feel at each of the meetings I go to - but let me set the scene for you.

The Events Committee is a collection of individuals who belong to a voluntary organisation I spend a lot of time with, who have come together to organise two events each year, and some years three. Each event is for a specific purpose and to a greater or lesser extent follows EXACTLY the same process year on year.

The history of the events in question harks back about 60 years, so there’s nothing very new in what we’re doing, but sadly, like the people who organise it, the events are tired, ancient and could do with having the kiss of life. I was co-opted onto the committe - I maintain - under false pretences, but its easy to see why they did it. Imagine a bunch of old women at a WI meeting chatting about jam and scones, and you’re pretty close. One old biddy is going on and on about how many gingham jam-tops to make, and whether she should have any plain white ones this year as well, and the other is nodding and periodically asking for other people to contribute to the discussion, but no-one will, because the group are trying to organise the whole church fete, not just the bloody jam-tops. Its pretty much the same thing.

I have tried to be one of the ‘new blood’, coming in with a fresh look, new ideas, confidence and enthusiasm, hoping collectively with some of my newer colleagues that we can bring the Events of 2008 into the 21st century. I have attended dilligently, I have contributed, I have given my opinion and argued my corner for change that has to happen, lest the Events themselves die a death. I have taken on work beyond my remit, and provided a platform upon which other things can be built…..

And yet, we still keep going back to the jam tops.

My enthusiasm is waning. I still attend, but I am battling against an inner apathy. So far little of it has been on show, but I know its there in my heart. There are only so many times you can hear “Well, what we normally do is….”  without it affecting you.

I found myself remembering my old studies into teamwork (I’m a psychology graduate on the quiet - but don’t let that put you off), and remembered the magic number 7. I can’t remember who proved it (I’d be grateful if you could help me remember, folks!), but generally, if a group consisted of 7 or less people, decisions got made and the group could achieve. As soon as the group got bigger than 7 members, it became fragmented, and sub-groups formed, obstructing the group’s progress and generally causing unnecessary disputes, seriously affecting the effectiveness of the team.

The events team often consists of 9 people or more, and on days when the full committee can be there, we often get less done then when there are 5 of us. Co-incidence? You be the judge.  

I went for my 12-week check up with my surgeon. He asked me how I was.

“Fine” I said. “My ankle is great. My foot really really hurts though - and it keeps swelling up. Its worse when I’m walking, and its making me limp.”

He prodded the joints at the base of each of my toes in turn. When he got to the one in my second toe (next to my big toe), I cried out. It was agony. I went quickly to the private hospital for an Xray to rule out a stress fracture of my 2nd Metatarsal.

Next day, I took the Xray film back to the surgeon. I’d already had a good look at it - and couldn’t see a fracture, so it was no surprise when he told me it wasn’t broken. Apparently I have Metatarsalgia, where the joint at the base of my 2nd toe has become inflamed and painful.

So, he gave me a cortisone injection - right into the joint in my toe. It was pain and discomfort I cannot adequately describe - but it was excruciating for a few minutes and felt like my toe had been bent suddenly at a 90 degree angle. Of course it hadn’t, but it felt like it.

Cortisone is a powerful anti-inflammatory, not a pain reliever, so it takes a few days to work on the inflammation. Its now two days later, and the pain is considerably less. I’ve been advised not to do too much for a couple of weeks to give it a chance to heal.  

I can’t believe my luck!

S xx

In an attempt to enhance my beauty regime, I decided to buy a pack of your ‘berry’ hair-removal wax-strips ‘for face’. I should mention that I do not have a facial hair problem yet, and I would like to keep it that way by removing the three or four little hairs on either side of my top lip which aren’t visible to the general public but that I know are there. One day when my hormones stop being produced in such great quantities, I do not want to look like the bearded and moustachioed women-librarians in my local college.

I opened the package, to reveal a selection of little wax strips which resembled small, thin adhesive-dressings, to warm ever-so-slightly, peel apart and stick to the area of my top lip in need of depilating. I am then advised to quickly remove the said strip, wrenching the hairs from their folicles and getting on with my life, safe in the knowledge that the furriness of my face is all in the past.

But no. I am simply left with a pink, sticky mess around my mouth, looking like I’ve been eating strawberry Angel Delight out of a shallow dish without a spoon. Following repeat attempts, I now smell distinctly of forest fruits, my skin is sore and I still haven’t removed a single hair. It has also taken me ten minutes and a rough flannel to remove the pink wax from my face, and I’m now getting rather cheesed off with the whole idea.

I’ll put the £5 I wasted on this useless product down to experience, and buy a razor instead.

Yours,

Spaniel xx