My Home Hub still does not work. It is a hub of nothing. Setting up wireless broadband is singularly the most stressful aspect of 21st century life.
So, not long until the big op. I won't be writing here for while, unless I can face another call to Mumbai to attempt to fix the Hub. I have no idea when I will be capable of devastating wit and scintillating repartee again. I may be in a morphine-induced haze, or at the very least high on gas and air, so perhaps I'll be more interesting than usual. I'll be a veritable font of grandiose prose and highfalutin philosophical assertions.
Another beautiful sunset from the window of the Posh New Office, still no means of uploading it as I am officially offline at home. Hubless. Snubbed.
I will be starting the next blog with the immortal words 'As you can see, I am not dead'. Just so you know. Unless I am in fact dead. Fingers crossed, hey?
Monday 26 January 2009
Friday 23 January 2009
Delightful
So, five days to go before they whizz the top of my head off and whip this brain tumour out (see how light-hearted and jovial I am about the whole thing?). Needless to say I'm not entirely light-hearted but bathing in a pool of flippant whimsy is always the best coping strategy, I find. Still no dressing gown. I'm beginning to think I'm going to get away with it.
The onset of panic today is largely caused by the copy of a letter I received last night, written from one consultant to another. Talking about these things is one thing, but seeing it all written down strikes something of a note of deep terror. The fact that they still don't really know what the thing is doesn't help either. Is not knowing anything better than knowing something bad?
The approach I'm taking at the moment, mind you, is to continue panicking about the results of the test when they send the Thing off for analysis. That way, the whole whipping the top of the head off thing seems like a jolly jape by comparison. Then, once I'm through the other side of that, all I'll have to worry about is the results and I've waited for terrifying results before so I can do it again. The compartmentalisation of fear, that's the ticket. Things are always easier when you break them down into smaller pieces.
One consolation is that the letter described me as 'delightful'. That's something, isn't it? Another is that A Place in the Sun - Down Under is on tonight. Amanda Lamb will see me through alright.
The onset of panic today is largely caused by the copy of a letter I received last night, written from one consultant to another. Talking about these things is one thing, but seeing it all written down strikes something of a note of deep terror. The fact that they still don't really know what the thing is doesn't help either. Is not knowing anything better than knowing something bad?
The approach I'm taking at the moment, mind you, is to continue panicking about the results of the test when they send the Thing off for analysis. That way, the whole whipping the top of the head off thing seems like a jolly jape by comparison. Then, once I'm through the other side of that, all I'll have to worry about is the results and I've waited for terrifying results before so I can do it again. The compartmentalisation of fear, that's the ticket. Things are always easier when you break them down into smaller pieces.
One consolation is that the letter described me as 'delightful'. That's something, isn't it? Another is that A Place in the Sun - Down Under is on tonight. Amanda Lamb will see me through alright.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Post Offices and Printers
I thought to myself not long before Christmas, that I need to be a More Giving Person. You reap what you sow, I thought, you only get what you give, all that jazz. What's more my birthday cards and presents have rather begun to tail off being that I haven't sent any out myself since about 1996. Two birthdays of close friends have since passed and I am yet to send cards or presents, although I do have them on my desk. Have you ever tried to send anything when you work in the City? Jesus. Not only are post offices the most depressing places ever invented and situated at intervals of six miles from one another, but they also seem to be frequented only by women wearing velour tracksuits with muffin tops on display to all and sundry or really posh men in late middle age with no social skills and Burberry overcoats, most of whom are probably Colonels from the War. Were this not bad enough the queue always has at least 700 people in it and the desk has precisely one cashier behind it who has a moderate motor skill deficiency and an appalling personal hygiene problem. So, I hiked all the way to Liverpool Street for the second time and failed to send parcels again. Being a More Giving Person is not turning out to be all it's cracked up to be.
All of the printers in my office are named after French celebrities. This is the world I live in. The IT Manager approached me last week to tell me that we were getting a new one, as in the Posh New Office we are too far away from a half-decent printer. We're within striking distance of Coco Chanel and Thierry Henry but share with people from another department and frankly I don't want them rifling through my important documents. I was given the huge burden of naming it. You wouldn't think it would be that difficult, but found myself agonising over the decision. There could be some terrible faux pas. There are the obvious choices, such as Edith Piaf, but then I thought the French people in my office could see this as a terrible stereotype. I mean, if it were the other way round and they chose Cilla Black, for example, I would probably take it as a personal affront. My colleague, in an attempt to be helpful, suggested Oscar de la Renta and Frederic Chopin, neither of whom are French, so was really no help at all. I ran Juliette Binoche past a French colleague and it seems that she has no bad associations in France - hasn't gone the way of Kerry Catona or anything like that. He replied saying 'good idea', although I did ask him in French, in which I'm not exactly proficient, so I could well have asked him if he fancies a menage a trois with Juliette Binoche next Thursday week. Let's hope not.
All of the printers in my office are named after French celebrities. This is the world I live in. The IT Manager approached me last week to tell me that we were getting a new one, as in the Posh New Office we are too far away from a half-decent printer. We're within striking distance of Coco Chanel and Thierry Henry but share with people from another department and frankly I don't want them rifling through my important documents. I was given the huge burden of naming it. You wouldn't think it would be that difficult, but found myself agonising over the decision. There could be some terrible faux pas. There are the obvious choices, such as Edith Piaf, but then I thought the French people in my office could see this as a terrible stereotype. I mean, if it were the other way round and they chose Cilla Black, for example, I would probably take it as a personal affront. My colleague, in an attempt to be helpful, suggested Oscar de la Renta and Frederic Chopin, neither of whom are French, so was really no help at all. I ran Juliette Binoche past a French colleague and it seems that she has no bad associations in France - hasn't gone the way of Kerry Catona or anything like that. He replied saying 'good idea', although I did ask him in French, in which I'm not exactly proficient, so I could well have asked him if he fancies a menage a trois with Juliette Binoche next Thursday week. Let's hope not.
Self-pity and Poppycock
A little more gloom has descended today. Let's hope it's not a downward slide to my surgery which is in fact on Thursday although I have to go in on Wednesday anyway to be scanned and probed and all that. Have my blood pressure taken again. Asked how important my religion is to me again. The one upside to this is I will at least get to watch Relocation, Relocation and the new series of Grand Designs in hospital the night before. Perhaps they'll give me some Valium too. Prescription drugs and property programmes. I'm almost looking forward to it.
I read a blog of someone else who has had a brain tumour whipped out today. It wasn't as detailed as I had thought. Just wait for my self-pitying, tortured poignancy and expressions of the innermost depths of the psyche.
I am knackered. I have been sleeping nine or ten hours every night, possibly because being asleep is better than being awake, although I think that's overstating it a little. The mornings are unpleasant as I lie there with my eyes closed waiting to see how bad the weird distorted vision will be when I open them. I'm almost used to it now, mind you, and I am told they'll go back to normal. That will be a joy. I had to look at a document at work earlier that I had put together a couple of days before the whole debacle kicked off. It's as if there is a dividing line between my life before finding out and the time after. Everything following that day is coloured by the existence of this thing in my head. Discoloured, in fact. Bleached, you might say, as if it drains the warmth out of experiences. Life in sepia.
The bright side, of course, is that once I come through the other side I will be a much stronger person. I already am. One also has a rather different sense of perspective. That irritating couple on Relocation, Relocation last week pulled out of a sale because they just 'couldn't go through that heartbreak again' and I thought 'you haven't even the slightly morsel of a clue of what life is really about, have you?'. Heartbreak? Heartbreak? You don't even know what it is. Have a look at my heart love, if you can find it. I'm not sure if it's still there, let alone broken.
Anyway, that was supposed to be the bright side. Cynicism for the problems of others is not the way forward. I have still not resolved the dillemma of my hospital wardrobe, but aim to do so shortly. It's the most important aspect of the whole scenario.
So that's the first bit of self-indulgent drivel which isn't bad going for three days, I don't think. This blog is about my sanity, anyway, rather than purely Bridget Jones style wit and frivolity. Not about how many followers or comments I get. Although that would make me feel fun and popular.
I read a blog of someone else who has had a brain tumour whipped out today. It wasn't as detailed as I had thought. Just wait for my self-pitying, tortured poignancy and expressions of the innermost depths of the psyche.
I am knackered. I have been sleeping nine or ten hours every night, possibly because being asleep is better than being awake, although I think that's overstating it a little. The mornings are unpleasant as I lie there with my eyes closed waiting to see how bad the weird distorted vision will be when I open them. I'm almost used to it now, mind you, and I am told they'll go back to normal. That will be a joy. I had to look at a document at work earlier that I had put together a couple of days before the whole debacle kicked off. It's as if there is a dividing line between my life before finding out and the time after. Everything following that day is coloured by the existence of this thing in my head. Discoloured, in fact. Bleached, you might say, as if it drains the warmth out of experiences. Life in sepia.
The bright side, of course, is that once I come through the other side I will be a much stronger person. I already am. One also has a rather different sense of perspective. That irritating couple on Relocation, Relocation last week pulled out of a sale because they just 'couldn't go through that heartbreak again' and I thought 'you haven't even the slightly morsel of a clue of what life is really about, have you?'. Heartbreak? Heartbreak? You don't even know what it is. Have a look at my heart love, if you can find it. I'm not sure if it's still there, let alone broken.
Anyway, that was supposed to be the bright side. Cynicism for the problems of others is not the way forward. I have still not resolved the dillemma of my hospital wardrobe, but aim to do so shortly. It's the most important aspect of the whole scenario.
So that's the first bit of self-indulgent drivel which isn't bad going for three days, I don't think. This blog is about my sanity, anyway, rather than purely Bridget Jones style wit and frivolity. Not about how many followers or comments I get. Although that would make me feel fun and popular.
Tuesday 20 January 2009
He's in, for the love of God, he's IN!
That's it! Obama is in. A joyous moment indeed. What a sight all of those people watching in the brass monkeys conditions. I'm moved by Aretha's presence too although her performance was a little wayward and her hat was extraterrestrial. I have read The Audacity of Hope and I too am very hopeful. That's what we (almost) always have to hang on to, anyway. My only concern is that everyone (me included) will let the elation obscure the reality (still vaguely Victor Meldrew-ish even at this hour - sigh).
I'm listening to his speech as I type. He's talking about enduring the lash of the whip. It's been very rousing so far. What I found even more rousing was this...
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/world_news_america/7838941.stm
...it brought a tear of inspiration to my eye, although that could very well have been caused by the tinkling, floaty piano music in the background.
I'm listening to his speech as I type. He's talking about enduring the lash of the whip. It's been very rousing so far. What I found even more rousing was this...
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/programmes/world_news_america/7838941.stm
...it brought a tear of inspiration to my eye, although that could very well have been caused by the tinkling, floaty piano music in the background.
Tuesday Blues
My Grandma telephoned last night telling me she was sending money so that I could buy a new dressing gown. She wouldn't let it go and of course took it as a personal affront that I didn't want one, as if the years of bacon sandwiches in bed and emergency rescue cheques at university were all for nothing. So now I'm going to have to lie or give in to the dressing gown pressure group, which is steadily growing. She actually thinks I'm about 12 years old. I should be more charitable she is 83 years old. And has some very nice etched sherry glasses and an East African bonewood standard lamp I've got my eye on. I'd have to have the shade reupholstered but the carving is really very special.
Not wanting to sound like a Victor Meldrew in the making, my BT Home Hub continues to be nothing but a source of anger and irritation. I took some photos out of the window of my Posh New Office of the Florida style-hurricane/twister/tropical storm that advanced upon London yesterday with the intention of dragging my blog into the realms of multimedia and couldn't get online again. Then I was disconnected whilst talking to Mum on the phone and then I saw an advertisement for said Home Hub in between the Channel Four News and Fifth Gear telling me how reliable it was. The ridiculous flashing blinking thing may look very modern but is certainly not the the hub of my home because it doesn't work. Trying to connect and sustain successful wireless broadband has been the singularly most stressful aspect of my existence over the past five years, across two addresses and two service providers. That and losing all my credit cards every three months and never being able to find my glasses. The one consolation is that I don't have to read or have any involvement in the publication of Trademark World.
Not wanting to sound like a Victor Meldrew in the making, my BT Home Hub continues to be nothing but a source of anger and irritation. I took some photos out of the window of my Posh New Office of the Florida style-hurricane/twister/tropical storm that advanced upon London yesterday with the intention of dragging my blog into the realms of multimedia and couldn't get online again. Then I was disconnected whilst talking to Mum on the phone and then I saw an advertisement for said Home Hub in between the Channel Four News and Fifth Gear telling me how reliable it was. The ridiculous flashing blinking thing may look very modern but is certainly not the the hub of my home because it doesn't work. Trying to connect and sustain successful wireless broadband has been the singularly most stressful aspect of my existence over the past five years, across two addresses and two service providers. That and losing all my credit cards every three months and never being able to find my glasses. The one consolation is that I don't have to read or have any involvement in the publication of Trademark World.
Monday 19 January 2009
Ode to Claire
Boss's Boss did not reply. Being that I didn't have the cunning shoelace-tying pretext I found myself hovering outside my Boss's office with the poise and gravitas of a lemon. Boss is having a baby, which will may or may not be named Henrietta or Edward.
I have a deep aversion to dressing gowns. This is not an obstacle I have to grapple with on a daily basis as one doesn't often run across people in their dressing gowns unless one is staying at someone's house and when one is staying at someone's house it's often as one is on some sort of weekend visit and there are plans to go on country walks/have fashionable brunches/generally gorge oneself and therefore the scope for lounging around and the possible appearance of a dressing gown is kept to a minimum.
The problem is, I've got to go into hospital a week tomorrow and will have to stay for a week. A whole week. Thankfully I have had only a fleeting and perfunctory relationship with hospitals to date, but when I have had to grace them with my presence it seems that all of the patients walk around attached to drips in dressing gowns, not unlike the Walking Dead. Being that I will not be on top of the world as is, what with the hole in head and such, the wearing of dressing gown (and slippers, for that matter) could well tip me over the edge. Discussing this over carb-heavy dinner the consensus was that some sort of velour tracksuit was the only alternative. Not having felt the need to emulate Jodie Marsh (who I have met, incidentally), Jordan or J-Lo (actually I do want to emulate J-Lo) the cold light of day makes me think this is not the best or only alternative. Would really like to wear tiny little gay Aussie Bum vest and Y-fronts to shock nurses but am currently skinnyfat and not up any display of flesh. Any suggestions would be welcome.
I have a deep aversion to dressing gowns. This is not an obstacle I have to grapple with on a daily basis as one doesn't often run across people in their dressing gowns unless one is staying at someone's house and when one is staying at someone's house it's often as one is on some sort of weekend visit and there are plans to go on country walks/have fashionable brunches/generally gorge oneself and therefore the scope for lounging around and the possible appearance of a dressing gown is kept to a minimum.
The problem is, I've got to go into hospital a week tomorrow and will have to stay for a week. A whole week. Thankfully I have had only a fleeting and perfunctory relationship with hospitals to date, but when I have had to grace them with my presence it seems that all of the patients walk around attached to drips in dressing gowns, not unlike the Walking Dead. Being that I will not be on top of the world as is, what with the hole in head and such, the wearing of dressing gown (and slippers, for that matter) could well tip me over the edge. Discussing this over carb-heavy dinner the consensus was that some sort of velour tracksuit was the only alternative. Not having felt the need to emulate Jodie Marsh (who I have met, incidentally), Jordan or J-Lo (actually I do want to emulate J-Lo) the cold light of day makes me think this is not the best or only alternative. Would really like to wear tiny little gay Aussie Bum vest and Y-fronts to shock nurses but am currently skinnyfat and not up any display of flesh. Any suggestions would be welcome.
Suddenly Monday
Here's the thing. I spent the entire weekend in the company of Bridget Jones. I watched both films on Saturday and am still reading the first book which I bought for 69p from a dodgey charity shop last weekend when it was -3 degrees and it was the nearest place I could find before hypothermia kicked in.
The thing is. I actually am Bridget Jones (apart from the fact that I have a relatively successful love-life). Whilst it's hilarious she also descends into ramblings which actually just describe the way my mind (partially) functions. She says, for example, 'Why is it, that whatever I'm doing, I get the feeling that I ought to be doing something else?'. I have that feeling non-stop. Now, for example. I'm at work. I should be working. Alright, this is the Credit Crunch and there's no work to do as all of our clients have gone bust. So, I ought to be studying. But I don't want to. I might. But then everyone will know I'm studying and not working and I'm supposed to be a motivational Team Leader.
Went for a very romantic (if chilly) walk in Hyde Park yesterday. Was lovely, but ought to have taken champagne and rowed around the lake. Ought to have nice little children called Henrietta and Edward and taken them for hot chocolates in that little floating gazebo coffee shop (which had shut down, incidentally, probably victim of the Credit Crunch too). Ought to have spent the whole studying. Didn't.
Just emailed my boss to tell him how much money we didn't make in December owing to Credit Crunch. Have had no reply. Am going to walk past his office and tie shoelace pointedly near door in an attempt to elicit a response. He's actually my boss's boss. V. important. Perhaps such tomfoolery would be unwise. I'll just walk past his door without shoelace fannydangle.
The thing is. I actually am Bridget Jones (apart from the fact that I have a relatively successful love-life). Whilst it's hilarious she also descends into ramblings which actually just describe the way my mind (partially) functions. She says, for example, 'Why is it, that whatever I'm doing, I get the feeling that I ought to be doing something else?'. I have that feeling non-stop. Now, for example. I'm at work. I should be working. Alright, this is the Credit Crunch and there's no work to do as all of our clients have gone bust. So, I ought to be studying. But I don't want to. I might. But then everyone will know I'm studying and not working and I'm supposed to be a motivational Team Leader.
Went for a very romantic (if chilly) walk in Hyde Park yesterday. Was lovely, but ought to have taken champagne and rowed around the lake. Ought to have nice little children called Henrietta and Edward and taken them for hot chocolates in that little floating gazebo coffee shop (which had shut down, incidentally, probably victim of the Credit Crunch too). Ought to have spent the whole studying. Didn't.
Just emailed my boss to tell him how much money we didn't make in December owing to Credit Crunch. Have had no reply. Am going to walk past his office and tie shoelace pointedly near door in an attempt to elicit a response. He's actually my boss's boss. V. important. Perhaps such tomfoolery would be unwise. I'll just walk past his door without shoelace fannydangle.
Friday 16 January 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
