Film Review: Sex and The City

Warning: Although I will try not to reveal any spoilers that are not indicated in the trailer, if you wish to see the film without knowing anything about the plot, I suggest that you stop reading now and come back once you have watched the film.

I will start this review by stating that I am a Sex and the City fan; I own all the series which I watch and re-watch, for the clothes as much as the girls. I embrace the shoe-loving cliches which emanated from SATC and my favourite comment on this blog was the lovely person who compared me to Carrie Bradshaw. That's not to say I would actually like to be her (I'm quite happy with my own life) but I wouldn't mind her job, her flat or her wardrobe. I was therefore extremely excited to see the film, which I waited many years to see after the series ended. So, with baited breath BestFriend, Faux Sister-In-Law and I dragged our respective partners to the preview screening last night.

Many professional reviewers have commented that the film, a romantic comedy, was too long at 2 and half hours. I barely noticed the time passing, such was my enjoyment in watching the film. I thoroughly enjoyed watching it, thought it was fab. A great nights entertainment. I laughed, cried, cooed over the fashion and marvelled at how good the actresses looked despite their advancing years. Thinking about it in more depth though, I realised that a great piece of entertainment and it being a successful film do not necessarily mean the same thing.

Carrie says at the beginning of the film that people come to New York for the two 'L's - labels and love. The film certainly addressed these two issues in some detail - the whole film was glorious in it's technicolour-ed fashion and I cannot have been the only girl who wished for the Yves Klein blue Manolos with diamond detailing. As far as love went, SATC seemed caught between two posts - portray love as a happy ending or love as it honestly is? Forgiveness, selfishness, idolatry, happiness; these were all ideas which worked around the central theme which ran through the series and into the film - single girls looking for love which met their all consuming expectations. The most serious problem that the film encountered was that SATC seemed to have lost it's identity somewhere - it wanted to be bigger than a TV series yet it relied completely on the TV series for the story lines. Fast paced editing at the beginning gave way to elongated episodes which could have been cut in favour of more detail - time passed alternately very quickly and slowly, without any of the soul-searching of Ms Bradshaw that was the back-bone of the TV series. Each character needed to have their stories told yet somehow it seemed that there was too much attempted but not enough realised.

The plot was fairly predictable - Carrie is still a writer, although of books not newspaper columns, Charlotte and Miranda both married with a child, Samantha still in PR, there was a wedding, some minor twists, some loss, some forgiveness, some comical moments, some sad ones - but in trying t0 pack in so much action so much essential detail was lost. There were no girly discussions and dissections only a few cocktails, there was no love for New York or of culture or of the small things in life. Small details which looked like they might lead somewhere or mean something were glossed over. There were elements of the old SATC still visible occasionally though - the irony of Carrie agreeing to be photographed for Vogue was reminiscent of the use of the question mark on the last magazine shoot she did for example (and is it co-incidence that there is an age feature in this month's British Vogue?) - but it seemed that there was something missing. It was, as Wendy Ide in the Times Review put it, "like being reunited with old friends only to realise that you’ve grown irreparably apart". Still, I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it and I cannot wait to see it again on DVD.

Cornwall

Returned to London after a weekend in Cornwall with friends. Despite the weather forecast predicting chilly winds and pouring rain, it really only rained when we were not wanting to be outside anyway. I went for a long solitary walk along the edge of the Camel estuary, following the exposed sand bank round at the lowest of low spring tides, the tide so far out that the water had receded to the teeniest channel allowing slow headway up towards Rock and Padstow, the gap so narrow it seemed as if a running leap would take you safely over the water. The boys played golf, I read, we had drinks in the sailing club and a huge comforting chili in the evening whilst the sun set over the cliffs. On the Sunday we meandered around the clothes shops before the most delicious roast lunch at the sailing club and a rather damp ferry crossing to Padstow. Once in Padstow the sun came out and we pottered around the harbour and the winding streets, in and out of shops and galleries and pausing for a cup of tea before catching the ferry back across the estuary, this time in hot sunshine, and a walk along the beach to the church for evensong. It was very peaceful sitting there in the quiet cold church listening to the singing, the sound of birdsong filling the pauses, the sun streaming through the windows and brightening the white washed walls. And then back out, blinking in the still bright sunshine rather like moles emerging from their hills, walking back across the beach, home for supper, for a film, sleeping solidly for 9 hours and waking to the sound of rain lashing against the window, the view of the sea blocked by low lying sea mist hanging over the hills and golf course. Lying in bed in the warmth, watching the rain against the sky light. And then the long drive back to London. A wonderful weekend.

This & That

Our house guests might have departed but reminders of them remain; I used my clothes brush to remove an entire fistful of fur from the arm chair in the sitting room and every time I sneeze at night previously invisible hairs rise off the bedspread in a cloud. A freshly washed, ironed and clothes brushed pair of navy suit trousers still covered in white hairs. Stray pieces of litter behind the wine boxes in the hallway, a remnant of Louis' over excited digging; a discarded biscuit behind the bin in the kitchen.

Our feline house guests may have departed but it was a busy weekend for human ones. A quiet roast dinner on Friday evening with BestFriend turned into her sleeping over on the sofa. We spent a companionable Saturday morning cleaning and turning chicken bones into stock before she departed for some flat hunting mid afternoon. As one guest left another arrived, this time for a dinner party we hosted in honour of a university friend leaving to join his girlfriend in Stockholm at the end of the month. M cooked a beautiful if time consuming beef in borollo dish. Sunday saw him turn the stock from Saturday into demi-glas which has now been frozen in an ice cube tray - the basis for many more lovely meals in the future. Another dinner on Sunday, this time at someone else's house and an opportunity for M to finish watching The Wire in preparation for the delivery of the OC (series 4) this week. Tonight M is watching football and I shall be hiding in the bedroom for The Apprentice followed by as much OC as I can fit in before bed.

House Guests

They departed last night, our guests Louis and David. They came for the weekend whilst their parents were abroad and spent the weekend playing games, causing trouble, sleeping and eating. Like 'proud parents' ('PP') M and I spent evenings entertaining them and taking photographs of them snuggled up together angelically or fighting in the middle of the floor. Even at such a young age both had distinct personalities: Louis settled down very quickly and thought most activities to be a great game whereas David remained resolutely grumpy and stand-offish. Make the most of a weekend away, not him.

Much as I enjoyed being a PP, I was rather pleased to have an unbroken nights sleep last night. No more drifting off to sleep hoping that they were still alive, no more awakening suddenly as one of them climbed onto the bed, no more lying there in the dark as they chased each other up and down the sitting room engaged in some form of horseplay which invariably ended up with them fighting each other. No more crying outside the bathroom door as I got ready for work, not allowing them inside as they jumped straight into the shower and started trying to lick all the bottles before padding wet paw prints up and down the hall.

There were many touching moments in the weekend as well as the outright comical, like finding Louis down the back of the bedside table snuggled into a ball in a space which looked far too small for him and having to get him out again somehow. Or both of them standing on their back paws trying to reach up to the glasses of water on a table. Or finding them both curled up on a pile of shoes on the floor underneath our clothes rail. They also both had a habit of sneaking under the duvet during the early morning hours, so I often awakened to find one of them curled up sleeping in the crook of my knees. So it was with mixed emotions that I packed up their food and bowls, emptied their tray one last time and watched with horror as just before their parents came to collect them Louis coughed up a fur ball and was sick on the floor.

Overheard at lunchtime...

On trying to ingratiate oneself with the partners of a law firm: "I attended University of Columbia, before that the Spence School. Of course, I was at school with Gwyneth Paltrow. I'm a year older than her." "Are you friends with her then?" "We see each other at Spence School functions...could get her as a client. Their marriage is good though. He, Chris Martin, is really down to earth...cares for the kids". "Well, I'll certainly bring it up at the next partners meeting."

On finding adult children too needy: "He rang me when we were on holiday to say that he'd punctured the fridge with a knife whilst he was defrosting it, and what should he do? We can't even go away by ourselves without them ringing up. The other one rang from her honeymoon in the Maldives to say that she was worried she was depressed. She doesn't know the meaning of depressed..."

Say hello to your neighbours

The BBC reports today that 1 in 10 people questioned for a survey do not speak to their neighbours. It goes onto suggest that the streets are empty and that there is a serious decline in everyday interaction.

We live in a typical somewhat suburban inner London street; a mixture of Victorian and modern houses, some converted into a number of flats, some are family houses. We are not on a main bus route but there is a tube station fairly nearby so there is pretty much a constant trickle of pedestrians up and down the road for most of the day. Every match day this number is multiplied many fold. There are also various workmen about completing one project or another.

One of the nicest things about living where we do is that we have friendly neighbours. We are friends with the people who live upstairs from us and frequently pop round to each other's flats for drinks. We are also able to just text each other if the music is too loud, or whatever, rather than letting it annoy each other and cause resentment. It is surprising how low our music can be and still be heard 2 flights up.

We are also on good terms with the neighbours to the side - greeting each other rather than drinking together - and they came round last night with a bottle of champagne to apologise for some rather prolonged building work which had taken up many weekends before they moved in. Last week we popped home to vote at lunchtime and returned quickly to the house. The dog started barking and Mrs Neighbour came to check that there were no burglars. Whilst some people may deem that nosy, I was very appreciative that someone noticed that there was unusual activity in our garden and came to investigate.

Our property is unusual in terms of access to other properties so we do see our neighbours at the back more than perhaps others do as we share an access way and also the gardens are connected. We are on very good terms with the parents of the family and do our best to use our shared parts of land to minimise disturbance to each other. The BBC article indicates that many neighbourhood disputes arise over a lack of communication - something which we have certainly noticed first-hand. Sharing communal parts inevitably leads to differing ideas over how things should be done and whose priorities are more important; an issue exacerbated when one party owns and the other party rents. Communicating with each other regularly seems to have smoothed the issues of contention and both parties have learnt to compromise.

As to other people on the street, well that is harder. People do tend to keep themselves to themselves in London and apart from our immediate neighbours I would not recognise people who live near-by. Free-cycle has introduced me to a few very friendly people in the area but they are not people I see on a regular basis. I know our normal postman to say hello to and he knows which address is mine but it is not always the same postman (or at least I presume it isn't since sometimes the postman hands me the post yet on other occasions our neighbours bring it round as it has been posted through the wrong door).

Whilst I agree that everyday interaction is important there is also a need, especially in a city like London, to be able to switch off at home and not feel that people are constantly haranguing you or being nosy. Personally I am appreciative of friendly neighbours and go out of my way to cultivate this relationship but I also understand that some people do not want to be under an obligation to say 'hello' or even idly chit-chat for a couple of moments if you both happen to be in your garden at the same time or step outside the front door simultaneously. However, I do think that a happy medium is preferable, not least because it encourages a safer neighbourhood and, I hope, lowers crime rates.

Gardening Lessons

The gardening plea has gone down well. We are in Yorkshire as part of a trip seeing family and I spent yesterday afternoon learning some gardening techniques in Granny's greenhouse. 42 plugs of yellow geraniums had arrived from an offer in a newspaper and Dad showed me how to gently poke them out of the plugs using a handy pointed device (this happened to be the part of a bird feeder which a bird would stand on, was it in use) and tease them apart, re-planting them safely in individual pots and then watering them. He showed me the way to handle plants, how to feed them, different types of compost. We identified plants in the garden and I was shown how to feed things and how to plant up my hanging baskets. I then looked through the weekend papers and am writing this after going on-line to place my order for 24 free sweet-peas. 

Granny has had a look through her bookcases and has found an encyclopedia of container gardening which I have been reading this afternoon and deciding on potential combinations of plants for different kinds of containers. Sadly it has been raining or no doubt we would have been in the garden as we were yesterday afternoon, sitting on the freshly mown lawn drinking cups of tea and enjoying the sunshine after all our earlier efforts.

Dad produced a box from his car which contained some old tools, some pots, some seeding trays and two containers of food. Granny has found some spare hanging basket compost with water granules already mixed in. Tomorrow we return to M's parents en-route to London where there is some other compost and some small plants which M's mother has  grown from seed for us. I look forward to having a bash myself next weekend at planting up some of the baskets and tubs.

Image from New Zealand Garden Stuff

Free-cycle & 'make-do-and-mend' ideals

The basic concept of free-cycle is simple: to "recycle" items no longer needed, rather than throw them away. The only rule is that things have to be offered free. Free-cycle ettiquette suggests that you should give and take in equal amounts but I cannot imagine that anyone really monitors this.

When we moved into our flat last year we were so pleased to find somewhere we liked and we could 'afford' in an area we liked with a reasonable journey to work that we did not stop and realise that it also has a few irritating flaws. A hard to air bathroom. Windows sealed shut. No storage space. A little persistance on the free-cycle boards followed and we were soon the proud new owners of two chest of drawers. A plea in relation to a suitcase meant that I soon was heading round to a neighbouring flat to pick up one they no longer wanted. It has a squashed wheel but it is still a functioning suitcase, which I did not have to pay for, and which did not end up in landfill.

It therefore seemed sensible to see whether anyone wanted our unwanted things. I posted two lists of possessions which ranged from "bag of assorted mens clothes" to handbags, glasses case, a free flatpacked beach ball still in it's wrapping to an extra edition of Vogue which I was sent in error. Almost immediately responses came flooding in. Someone wanted the un-used LA Fitness water bottle, someone else the LK Bennett flipflops. Within 24 hours I had takers for all of the things I listed. Some have clearly gone to private individuals. One man has said he will take everything that I have left - although it disturbs me that he might be selling it on - at least he is taking it off my hands (and if I was really that bothered about selling it I should have done so myself).

Yesterday I posted a plea for unwanted hanging baskets for the garden. I have experimented with soil in tubs on the back step but pretty soon after filling them they were dug up by something. Today I received an offer of three plus wall brackets. I am hoping to work out where and how to hang the baskets and hopefully by the summer we should have either some flowers or some baskets of salad. Yesterday I spent the evening planting basil seeds and giving them plastic hats, lining them up on the kitchen window sill where I hope they will start germinating. I am also planning a box of some kind of flowers on the outside of the window sill. But I am determined not to spend any money on this exercise. I have asked my parents and grandparents for old or spare gardening equipment and pots. I am re-using the soil/compost from last years tomato grow bag and I may, if I am blessed with the right equipment, dig up the compost bin and use the bottom layers in with the soil. I think I may have to buy some plant food, but I have requested cuttings from my family and any old seeds they do not want or have not yet got round to using. In short, I am returning to make-do-and-mend principles as well as hoping to reduce the food miles of our diets. (I am also hoping to save myself a bit of money)

I have also posted on free-cycle asking if anyone has an old sewing machine they no longer need. No-one has responded so far but I am determined to acquire one from somewhere as I would like to start making a few summer clothes and household embellishments.

De-cluttering

Have spent some of the past few weeks de-cluttering the house and have spent tonight listing a few of the brand new unwanted things on e-bay, trading in some old mobile telephone and then offering the rest on free-cycle. I wonder which one will be the most effective way of getting rid of things and which ones will go the quickest. Supposedly one person's rubbish is another's treasure and I have in the past derived a lot of pleasure from charity shop and jumble sale shopping. My best find was an old-fashioned glass cake stand which I serve cakes on for birthdays and tea parties.

This week the 'credit crunch' has rather started to hit home. In my annual review I asked for a pay rise which was refused so although my wages remain the same, all interest rates have increased, council tax has increased, gas and electricity prices have increased and it is more expensive to shop than it has been. So, I have to make my money go even further and it is at this point that I realise that I am fortunate to not have any children or a mortgage. Times must be hard as I have even counted out and bagged our copper collection ready to take to the bank tomorrow.

Of course, times like this are where the saying 'spend less or earn more' really matters. It is clearly not feasible to have another job (unless I could find some local babysitting, which is something I might try) so it will have to be spend less. Clearly there are a few places that costs can be cut (less drinking, fewer taxis) but these are getting less and less. Most of my expenses are now essential and it is starting to worry me.

UPDATE: I cannot believe how quickly things go on free cycle - within 2 hours of listing 14 items only 4 remain unallocated.

MeMe

Thanks to Rachel for her tag. She asks me to list six random things about me and then tag six others. If you're really interested in random things about me there are seven more here.



1. I lived in California from 1988 to 1990 which meant I was there for the earthquake of 1989 and I also managed to experience the Teenage Mutant Hero Turtle (or whatever they were called) phenomenon twice. Once in the US and then once back in England.

2. For the 2 years I lived in America I had an American accent. No-one would believe I was English. Now, there is no doubting my nationality.

3. My comfort food is peanut butter and marmite on toast.

4. I am embracing WI cliches and am going on a jam making day in June (which I am really looking forward to, especially as the chutney went down so well at Christmas)

5. I discovered the Apprentice this series having refused to watch it before. I have actually enjoyed watching it although I cannot believe that some people lie despite knowing that they are being filmed.

6. I re-read my favourite books over and over again. (I won't elaborate more as I have a post in the making regarding this)

And now I tag: Echo/Suzi, James at the Ink, Upside Down Annie, Legally Blonde, and any one else who wants to be tagged please make themselves known in the comments box.

No sympathy for striking

Any sympathy I had for teachers has waned rapidly this week.

I am not a teacher but I come from a family of teachers. My Grandfather taught at a private school and my Grandmother at a prep school. Their son is an English teacher at a state secondary and their daughter at a Montessori school. Her husband was a teacher at a state secondary and is now a driving instructor. My mother didn't go into to teaching. My three closest female friends from university are now teachers; one at a state school in London, one at a private school in Suffolk and the third at a state primary in Cambridge. Other friends from school are teaching in a variety of state primary and secondary schools around the country. Not one has left because they don't get paid enough.

Of all these people, the only one whose salary I know is my friend who teaches in London. She earns £8,000 more than me a year despite us both having degrees from the same university and holding post graduate qualifications in our chosen fields. The others all must earn more than me by at least £3,000 as the starting salary for teachers is £20,133.

My friend who is a London teacher works hard. She is in school by 7.45 every morning and she leaves between 3 and 5pm depending on activities. She does marking and planning at the evenings and some weekends although she manages an active social life as well. She benefits from 2 weeks off at Christmas, 2 at Easter, 3 for half-terms and 6 weeks in the summer. She is using some of her summer holiday to take some children abroad to work on a community project but in return she does not have to pay for her trip. She works during the holidays but she is able to take marking down to Cornwall or away to her parents. She can work outside in the sunshine or can stay up all night working in her pajamas if she chooses. She also benefits from a pension and she had a grant to pay for her postgraduate certificate. I believe she receives some kind of financial payout after she has been working for a few years. Her job is stressful and she must deal with teenagers and their problems each day she is in school. I have no doubt that she works hard.

In comparison I earn the minimum salary for a trainee solicitor in London. I am expected to be in my office 5 days a week and I am frequently still at my desk until 8pm. It is unusual for me to leave before 7pm. I do not think my hours are excessive as I know other trainees who work longer hours still (I quote from someone on their time at Linklaters: "The hours were, frankly, quite ridiculous. I’d be in the office after midnight — often much later — at least two days a week. Even on a quiet day I wouldn’t finish before eight. Having a life became virtually impossible. There was a kind of implied understanding that you’d drop everything if something came up at work. And things were constantly coming up. One of my colleagues actually had to cancel her 30th birthday party a few hours before it was scheduled to start after being drafted onto a deal.") At present I am not required to work weekends although once I change work loads I could well expect to. I know people who work all weekend, including my boss. I have 20 days holiday a year plus bank holidays. I had to open my own pension scheme and pay my own way through my post graduate certificate. The repayments of that loan alone come to almost £500 a month from my salary.

My point is thus: teachers work hard but so does everyone else. I do not believe a teacher's job to be more stressful than any other professional job. Everyone is facing the same financial impact of rising prices, rising taxes and falling houseprices. Teachers are well remunerated for their work and they receive benefits in addition which includes holidays and pensions. They claim that there is unnecessary paper work and regulations in teaching but that is not limited to their profession. In my work complying with money laundering regulations for example take up a disproportionate time allocation. I therefore have no sympathy with their so-called plight and I fundamentally disagree that selfish striking which inconveniences other people, not least letting down the children in their charge, should have any kind of effect. I see striking in line with bullying and I do not think that it is an appropriate message to be sending to children. They are effectively saying that if someone does not agree with you it is reasonable to refuse to participate in the discussion in order to make them listen to your point of view. It is childish.

Re-union

Met up last night with a group of people that I used to sail with as a teenager, on national CCF courses at HMS Raleigh & HMS Bristol. We first met aged 14 and 15 and subsequently met up every summer and occasionally at other times of the year each year until we were 18 and left school. We stayed sporadically in written contact throughout university and the remaining years until last night when we finally managed to find a weekend where most of the group was free.

We had a great evening even if the two boats we went to for drinks and dancing would have been viewed sceptically in any other circumstances but were chosen merely for our nautical theme. To be honest apart from the occasional rocking when we were caught in the wash of a passing boat it mattered not a jot where we were. Meeting people again 8 years later is a strange mix of feeling that you know each other well yet at the same time you don't really know each other at all. It was though an enjoyable evening, and pleasing that despite the years of not seeing each other the dynamics were as if it were simply another CCF event only with more drinking and no-one dictating what we should do and how we should be doing it.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn

An article in the Times today imparts the sad news that John Betjeman's muse, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn died last Friday aged 92. I know that I have written about both Betjeman and this poem before, but as it is the end of their era here it is again.

A Subaltern's Love Song

Miss J. Hunter Dunn, Miss J. Hunter Dunn,
Furnish'd and burnish'd by Aldershot sun,
What strenuous singles we played after tea,
We in the tournament - you against me!

Love-thirty, love-forty, oh! weakness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy,
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won,
I am weak from your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
How mad I am, sad I am, glad that you won,
The warm-handled racket is back in its press,
But my shock-headed victor, she loves me no less.

Her father's euonymus shines as we walk,
And swing past the summer-house, buried in talk,
And cool the verandah that welcomes us in
To the six-o'clock news and a lime-juice and gin.

The scent of the conifers, sound of the bath,
The view from my bedroom of moss-dappled path,
As I struggle with double-end evening tie,
For we dance at the Golf Club, my victor and I.

On the floor of her bedroom lie blazer and shorts,
And the cream-coloured walls are be-trophied with sports,
And westering, questioning settles the sun,
On your low-leaded window, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

The Hillman is waiting, the light's in the hall,
The pictures of Egypt are bright on the wall,
My sweet, I am standing beside the oak stair
And there on the landing's the light on your hair.

By roads "not adopted", by woodlanded ways,
She drove to the club in the late summer haze,
Into nine-o'clock Camberley, heavy with bells
And mushroomy, pine-woody, evergreen smells.

Miss Joan Hunter Dunn, Miss Joan Hunter Dunn,
I can hear from the car park the dance has begun,
Oh! Surrey twilight! importunate band!
Oh! strongly adorable tennis-girl's hand!

Around us are Rovers and Austins afar,
Above us the intimate roof of the car,
And here on my right is the girl of my choice,
With the tilt of her nose and the chime of her voice.

And the scent of her wrap, and the words never said,
And the ominous, ominous dancing ahead.
We sat in the car park till twenty to one
And now I'm engaged to Miss Joan Hunter Dunn.

-- John Betjeman

Communication

I have written before about my problems with Orange and British Gas. Yesterday I encountered some (minor) problems with EDF energy. After some discussion with customer services I hope that they are now sorted, but given that I thought that about British Gas and it took another six months to rectify the problem, I am not holding my breath. I therefore felt for Rachel when I read about her problems regarding her kitchen and judging from her comments box she is not alone.

It seems to me that one of the errors that these companies are making is in a lack of communication. Perhaps in an effort to cut costs or perhaps because they just don't think about it, they fail to communicate accurately and mistakes get repeated ad infinitum. I was expounding this theory to M when we sat down to watch the Apprentice last night whilst eating our supper. Now, I hope that all of those candidates have secure jobs to return to in the event they don't win because quite frankly I would be unwilling to employ any of them based on their performances on the show (which I am aware is edited and produced). As far as I could tell, the candidates basic problem seems to be that they are so obsessed with 'winning' and doing each other down that they seem unable to get on with the task in hand, even going so far as to sabotage their team performance in the hope of getting each other fired. The other main problem seems to come back to communication, or lack of it. Yesterday's show involved taking photographs of people and then selling them said photographs. Hardly a difficult task I would have thought seeing as there seemed to be people queuing up to be snapped. Both teams problems lay in their in-ability to produce the photographs. No-one had designed a fail safe system of recording whose photos were which; instead of helping each other with technical failures there was simply shouting and there seemed to be no communication whatsoever between the front and back line teams.

In short it was a complete shambles and the winning team made less than £200 profit. The losing team made a loss. I am sure that if both teams had focused on getting their job done rather than the fact that one of them would lose their job they would have all turned a far higher profit. Incidentally, if I had been managing either of those teams, I would have ensured that as manager I was the link between the two teams and would have moved people as and when it became clear that there were difficulties, i.e. when production had ground to a halt.

Love Is...

Followed a link from a link from a link. And found this poem.

Love Is...

Love is...
Love is feeling cold in the back of vans
Love is a fanclub with only two fans
Love is walking holding paintstained hands
Love is.

Love is fish and chips on winter nights
Love is blankets full of strange delights
Love is when you don't put out the light
Love is

Love is the presents in Christmas shops
Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops
Love is what happens when the music stops
Love is

Love is white panties lying all forlorn
Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm
Love is when you have to leave at dawn
Love is

Love is you and love is me
Love is a prison and love is free
Love's what's there when you are away from me
Love is...

Adrian Henri

Ken v Boris

Still undecided about who you should vote for on 1 May 2008? Have a look at this helpful website and actually think about your opinion on some of the issues.

Small World Syndrome example 3

Supper last night with a good friend. Whilst standing in the kitchen, drinking wine and eating chilli prawns which M made as a starter I told them both the story of BestFriend's flatmate being the ex-boyfriend of a school friend. What I didn't expect was a further link. "You know Suitor*", my friend asked, "well, he and BestFriend went for a drink and it turns out that Suitor works with BestFriend's flatmate".


*Suitor is a school friend of the person who came over for supper. Suitor did once rather like BestFriend.

Small World Syndrome example 2

Rushed home last night as M had invited a few friends round to watch the football. I had been keen to avoid going to the pub to watch the game so I had said I would cook. All day my phone kept beeping "X's coming. Hope that's ok sweet" until I ended up cooking spaghetti bolognese for 9. Thankfully I not only had a girlfriend there to keep me sane (who helped with the cooking) but Liverpool won.

------

Had an e-mail from an old school friend this morning. "Rach" it read, "Do you know someone called X? Because if you don't, your doppelganger is on her fridge!" Turns out, the fridge in question belongs to the girlfriend mentioned above. "I do know her" I replied. " She's my BestFriend. What were you doing at her house?". Turned out that old school friend used to date BestFriend's flatmate whilst they both lived abroad and she had been round to their flat for supper last night whereon she had seen the picture of BestFriend and I together on the fridge.

Playing Detective

Reading the Times AlphaMummy blog has convinced me that I know one of the regular commenters. She has given enough detail about her life (divorce, number of children, some of their ages, high paid job, being back at work after only 2 weeks after the birth of her first child) that I am sure that she is a lawyer with whom I used to sing in the London Lawyers Chorus. If she is, and I am right, it is further proof that it is a small world. The most annoying thing though is that I will never know whether or not I am right.

Hospital Tales Part 5 - The Farce Continues

I finally got to speak to the clinic which I was having trouble with earlier in the week and they have received my referral. "You are now on a waiting list" she informed me. "We will write to you to tell you that you are on a waiting list and will be contacted within a maximum of 4 weeks". "So I can't book an appointment now", I queried. "No", she said, speaking slowly as if I were stupid, "You will get a letter in 4 weeks asking you to call to make an appointment. We send out a bundle of letters and then it is first come first served as to the appointments".

So I have waited 2 weeks for the referral whereon I will have to wait another 4 weeks to receive the opportunity to fight to get an appointment on a first come, first served basis from a clinic which will only answer their telephones on Monday, Wednesday and Friday until 4pm, except if you call at lunchtime, when they don't answer them and you get put through to Islington PCT and the line goes dead.

There has to be a better system.

Alpha Mummy

The Alpha Mummy posters are up in arms again today. For once they are not at war over the stay-at-home vs working mothers debate (although no doubt that will re-surface presently). No, they are outraged because some people have 'hijacked' their debate. It seems the Alpha Mummies want to ban anyone from commenting on 'their' threads who is not an 'Alpha Mummy'.

It seems that what has got them het up is a MAN has infiltrated the blog attached to a national newspaper which is ONLY FOR ALPHA MUMMIES. And not only a man but one who expressed a different opinion, although it has to be said, in a slightly oafish fashion. To be fair to him I don't think his method of expressing himself varied that much from some of the other regular commenters. His crime was to start off his comment (on a post debating the pros and cons of the embryo bill - a view on which cannot surely be limited to mothers) by stating where his point of view comes from (male, a father, a catholic, a scientist and lawyer) which I think can be helpful on a thread which contains so many separate points of view. His basic, if long winded point, seemed to be that life starts some point between conception and birth and at that point (whenever it is) the embryo is entitled to protection. Ergo if 'it' is entitled to protection then it is not right for 'it' to be sacrificed for the grearer good; his viewpoint was that this point was at conception therefore embryo research in this context should not be permitted. What the alpha mummies objected to was this statement: "unless there is/are god/s then all ethics are abitrary." In actual fact, I think he is using arbitary to mean something other than coming from nowhere, rather that ethics are not based in concrete facts, to which I agree. It seems an unusual place to start an argument though, as it the existence of god/s is not something that can be 'proved' in the scientific sense. However, it is not necessarily a statement which deserved jumping on in such vitriolic fashion ending with Jane writing "My original objection to xx's behaviour here was that he arrives out of the blue, not an Alpha mummy but as a guest, and then posts in a way that makes me think his ambition is to control the debate by setting the questions that he wants us to answer".

How they wish for an alpha mummy to be defined, I don't know. Certainly some of the regular commenters go by female names and appear to have children, but as we all know, you can take on any persona on the internet. Most of them claim to have Oxbridge firsts and be busy, but quite frankly they can't be that busy if they debate so often during the day. They also seem to be unaware that they are attacking people for behaving as they are doing.

Unpackaged

Tried to leave work early tonight. Finally managed to leave at 6.38pm and ran all the way to Exmouth Market to try to get to the Unpackaged shop before it closed at 7pm. I got there with one minute to spare and was very pleased that Catherine had not shut.

I had brought with me my empty Ecover washing up liquid and washing liquid containers so I had them refilled whilst I had a quick look round the shop. Large bins filled with flour, rice, oats, pasta and other dry food stand in the middle of the shop whilst shelves surround the other sides of this beautiful old converted dairy. I didn't have any time to remember what else I wanted and I hadn't brought any of my containers so I left it for the evening but I will be bringing back my empty oil and vingar bottles to be re-filled and stocking up on dried goods next week.

The owner, Catherine, was very sweet and would have stayed open later if I had wanted to buy anything else. We had a great chat about the products that she sells and the ethos behind her shop. If anyone lives anywhere near, the Unpackaged shop is a fantastic local retailer and if you bring your own containers you get a 50p discount per item which is a great incentive for people to cut down on packaging as well as just recycling it.

Hospital Tales Part 4

Just when I thought my experiences with the NHS were getting better, this happened.

Referral from my GP to a(nother) clinic. According to the paper she gave me I needed to ring them 2 working days after the referral to make an appointment which would be approximately in 6 weeks time. Instead of being able to ring up each day of the week and arrange an appointment when available, I could only ring on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday, with each day relating to appointments booked for a specific day. I.e. call on Monday for a Thursday or Friday appointment. So far, so good, if a little confusing. I, however, was referred last Tuesday so the next day that they were open to book appointments was the Friday. Which was a bank holiday. Or Monday, which was also a bank holiday. I finally called the following Wednesday where the conversation went along the lines of this:

Me: "I'm calling to make an appointment for XX clinic. My GP referred me last week"
Them: "Date of birth"
Me: "xxx"
Them: "which clinic"
Me: (repeats initial statement)
Them: "what's your name?"
Me: (spells name)
Them: "your date of birth?"
Me: (repeats date of birth, again")
Them: "how do you spell your name?"
Me: (spells name)

Turns out, they couldn't find my referral. "Your GP must not have sent it. Contact them and ask them to fax it, marked urgent". Phone went dead. So I called the GP surgery where I was greeted with a barked "hold the line". A few minutes later I explained the issue. "Date of birth?" she asked... "Yes, you were referred to XX clinic last Monday" she confirmed, confidently. "Well", I responded, "they don't seem to have any record of it being received. Can you re-fax it today, marked urgent?", I pleaded. "OK" she snapped and again the line went dead. So, as I have to wait 2 (clear) working days, that will bring me to Monday, two weeks after the initial referral.

Strikes me that Islington PCT could do with an integrated computer system...

Hospital Tales Part 3

Back to the hospital for another scan today. Same hospital; different department. Last week I wrote about the problems with administration which I encountered. Over the weekend I went for a drink with some friends, a group which included one who works for the NHS. "How do you find the administration in your hospital?" I asked her, explaining that at the hospital I go to I had found it lacking. "Appalling" she replied cheerfully, considering the wine list in the bar that we were in. "Last week", she continued, pointing to a bottle, "we had a live donor op. You know, kidney passing from mother to daughter, or whatever". I nodded, both in agreement to the wine and also concurring that I was following her story. "Well, the donor was on the table in theatre when suddenly someone realised that the donee had a temperature and was still on the ward". She ordered the bottle and the bar man handed me the glasses, "someone had forgotten to write it down and pass on the message". We went to sit down and she ended, "still, at least they hadn't started cutting" and poured the wine.

So it was with some surprise that I found myself back on the street a mere 10 minutes after the scheduled time for my scan. Granted, the department was much larger than the one I visited last week, being an entire outpatients department rather than simply a clinic, with a much more ordered reception desk, queuing system, note system. In fact, the whole system seemed far superior to that of the clinic upstairs, perhaps simply because these staff appeared familiar with theirs and knew (or appeared at the very least) what was going on. Anyway, I arrived with ten minutes to spare, presented my letter, my notes were found and details checked. I had just sat down to read whilst waiting and I was called in. It was over and done with in ten minutes and I was free to leave. I was so surprised I didn't know what to do with myself.

So I called a friend who works from home and went to his house and am sitting drinking tea, playing with his cats and waiting for him to finish work so we can go and watch another friend's band this evening.

Easter Weekend

As a child Easter meant a trip to Yorkshire, to see Grandparents, packed into the back of our Volvo with my two sisters, Dad driving through the night and carrying us into the house in the early hours of the morning. It meant a service on Good Friday, usually outside in the Cattle Market/Auction Mart. On other days the yard would be full of farm trucks and land rovers, animals being loaded and unloaded by farmers in green wellies and tweed jackets, the air thick with the sound (and smell) of dozens and dozens of sheep and cows, the auctioneer's voice raised above the general melee. Yet on Good Friday the only sounds were the voices of 30 or so villagers singing hymns and the preacher's voice against the quiet air, punctuated only by the occasional wheeling cry of a curlew, the yard quiet in contemplation and prayer, faces lifted to the warmth of the spring sun. Saturday morning was always spent at the church, helping Granny construct the miniature Easter garden, complete with a large stone rolled away and real flowers hidden in tiny glass vases behind stones and moss, which would then be blessed by the vicar at the Sunday morning service, prior to the Easter Egg hunt in the church garden.

This year was supposed to follow suit only illness put a stop to it and so we found ourselves at my parent's house instead. It didn't really feel like Easter at all, with it being so early in the year and being in Berkshire and neither of my sisters being present. While we used the opportunity to catch up with other friends and see, for the first time ever at Easter, my other grandparents, I felt rather nostalgic for the security of the familiarity of childhood.

Petition calling Chinese Governement to respect Tibet

I just signed an urgent petition calling on the Chinese government to respect human rights in Tibet and engage in meaningful dialogue with the Dalai Lama.

"After nearly 50 years of Chinese rule, the Tibetans are sending out a global cry for change. But violence is spreading across Tibet and neighbouring regions, and the Chinese regime is right now considering a choice between increasing brutality or dialogue, that could determine the future of Tibet and China. We can affect this historic choice. China does care about its international reputation. Its economy is totally dependent on "Made in China" exports that we all buy, and it is keen to make the Olympics in Beijing this summer a celebration of a new China that is a respected world power. President Hu needs to hear that 'Brand China' and the Olympics can succeed only if he makes the right choice. But it will take an avalanche of global people power to get his attention. Click below to join me and sign a petition to President Hu calling for restraint in Tibet and dialogue with the Dalai Lama -- and tell absolutely everyone you can right away. The petition is organized by Avaaz, and they are urgently aiming to reach 1 million signatures to deliver directly to Chinese officials"

Please join in with your support and sign the petition.

Ladybird

It is what seems like another day in an endless stream of grey and rainy days; cold, damp and miserable. Walking home last night it could have been November were it not for the sudden strong scent of wet blossom glistening in the orange light of the street lamps. This small reminder that spring is on her way provided a small amount of compensation for my wet muddy feet which left little sock prints all down the hall when I finally returned home.

Yet Saturday will not be remembered solely for the rain or the fact that I went all the way to the Tate to sit in the members cafe and count the cranes on the sky-line. No, Saturday for me will be remembered as the day I ate a ladybird and realised just why they are so brightly coloured.

More hospital tales

Arrived at hospital for appointment at 10am at 9.55am. Waited at reception counter for a few minutes until it was my turn. There were several administration staff at the desk, all equally incompetent, rifling pieces of paper attempting to look efficient but becoming increasingly flustered. "I've got an appointment at 10am" I said and she finally found my name of a piece of paper and started filling in the form. "Can I check your details?" she asked and proceeded to reel off my personal information, all correct. Until she reached my GP surgery, which was the old one. "Sorry", I said, "that's the old one. I wrote a letter to you to tell you the new details". She looked annoyed "I wasn't here that day" she replied, although I had said nothing about when I sent the letter. I gave her the new details although given the early time of day and my tired state I accidentally said "x x surgery" instead of health centre. I was instructed to take a seat and wait for my appointment so I asked how long the wait would be. Obviously I wasn't expecting a precise time but I was a little surprised to find that they were still on the 9.05am appointments and it was now 10.10am. I called work, explained the situation and sat down to read my book. After a few minutes the administrator accusingly called me to the desk: "You said x x surgery but it is actually x x health center. I have found it now" (implication that this was my fault although I had attempted to update records via letter), "we have updated your hospital record but not this scan clinic record. I have updated it now for you". Which is presumably why my GP never received the results of the last scan and why, after the scan which finally happened at 11am or so, I asked the consultant if I could take the letter to my GP myself. He agreed. Presumably he too has witnessed the inefficiency of the administrators.

Laughter

Bought some new liquid soap type thing for the shower. Laughter, it says, "conjures up the early evening paseo, when bathed and refreshed after a day on the beach, locals enjoy a leisurely stroll along the Spanish sea front. An uplifting blend of lime, rosemary and juniper enlivened by an unexpected sweet, spicy bite of ginger carried in the breeze".

Sounds a lot better than plain old body wash, non?

De-cluttering

An unexpectedly free Saturday afternoon. The day dawned rainy and grey and I thought I would make the most of a few spare hours by doing some de-cluttering and cleaning.

I am a hoarder. I keep everything 'just in case'. Even the 2 bags of clothes destined for the charity shop have not made it past the front door. Today I decided to tackle the papers which were stacked inside the shredder. Those shredded and re-cycled I decided to take the brave step and shred some more things. Hidden at the bottom of my bookcase were 3 paper carrier bags of brochures, application forms and rejection letters; the product of 4 years of job applications. One by one I fed them through the shredder, watching years of trying and failing to secure my career being eaten by the whirring jaws and been spat out as I should have seen them all along. Little pieces of paper.

Book Review: Petite Anglaise by Catherine Sanderson

Another day, another book of another blog...

As you might or might not know, depending on what you read and whether you are a blogger or at least reader of blogs, Petite Anglaise is not only the nom-de-plume of Catherine Sanderson, a 35 year old British girl who lives in Paris who started blogging to escape from her reality of motherhood, an imperfect relationship and the grind of everyday life, but her first book as well.

Though the blog Petite Anglaise has lost a little of its initial charm - these days there is a only a blurred distinction between Petite and Catherine; the majority of the Catherine's writing is promotion of the book - it is still an interesting read. The blog's inception was as a comment on her life in Paris but gradually Petite Anglaise took on a life of its own. Indeed, Catherine wrote somewhere that Petite became a glossier, wittier version of herself; a character whose first name was Petite, surname Anglaise. Catherine began living a duel life - as Catherine/Mamam she looked after her daughter and her long-term partner, worked as a bi-lingual secretary and carried on much as before in her beloved but increasingly care-worn Paris. In the evenings via her blog and then at blogging events in person, Catherine became Petite. She moved on from merely describing Paris to examining details of her personal life - the more her partner worked and pulled away from her, the more she craved his attention, using her blog to write open letters to him, knowing that he would never read them. But others read it, in their droves. It wasn't too long before Catherine started chatting to some of her regular readers, one in particular. It wasn't much longer before she started an affair with this man, initially through e-mails and texts but eventually a rendezvous in a hotel whilst she was to supposed to be at work. In that moment, in the one afternoon where Catherine and Petite collided, Catherine's life (and those of her family) altered irrevocably. Returning home to her partner and daughter, she ended her long-term relationship and moved into life as a single mother. She later wrote about the meeting on her blog - something which when the blog finally reached her boss's radar was used to sack her immediately. She may have won her case when she took him to an employment tribunal but the damage was done. Petite continued to gather momentum; via crushing hurt when she discovered that Lover realised that he had fallen in love with Petite but not necessarily Catherine and that he couldn't love either enough to carry on with their relationship to the sacking which brought with it an 'outing', as well as readers in their thousands. A book deal and eventually a new relationship and an engagement in the early hours of New Years Day followed.

And on that note, to the book. Most people reading it will know the background in one form or another yet it is an intriguing book, Petite Anglaise. As a reader of the blog details of Catherine's life are not unfamiliar yet this was not a collection of posts lifted from the blog. This was a year in her life, a background context if you will, to the subject of her blog. She returns to her initial blogging subject - her love of Paris and life as an English girl living in Paris - fitting into it an analysis and commentary of her actions and thoughts in relation to her blog. She attempts to examine herself and some of her motives behind what and why she writes yet the style is that of the familiar chick-lit formulae emphasised by the pink cover with line drawings. Catherine occasionally indulges in standard cliches but by and large it is readable.

It is an odd thing critiquing someone's book which you know is actually about their life. There are clearly biased opinions and all the detail is saved for the descriptions of Paris rather than developing the characters. James (Lover) manages to come across as a rather weak character and one can only assume what he will make of his starring role in someone else's fame. Of Mr Frog, to whom the book is also dedicated, there is even less detail save that he seems bigger than could be expected to still treat Catherine kindly after all she put him through. I hesitate to criticise Catherine too strongly for I feel she, through the book, admits that she has not behaved entirely appropriately but managed to stay true to herself. For example, Catherine states that her relationship with Mr Frog was floundering when they decided to have a child. The moral streak in me suggests that those are not the best intentions with which to enter into parenthood let alone words to be written down where the child in question might one day read them. Yet Catherine has the ability to be honest and examine the rights and wrongs of those actions, so who I am to (necessarily and arbitrarily) judge them.

All in all, I enjoyed reading Petite Anglaise and would recommend it to any of the followers of her blog. It satisfied my curiosity to know more about Catherine and her life leading up to and behind Petite, although her admission that she occasionally embellished and distorted the truth to make better posting on her blog made me wonder if some of the elements of the book had not suffered the same fate. In general though I admired her honesty - she didn't paint herself as either a perfect person nor one who had suffered at the hands of others. Indeed at times she alluded to the fact that she became Petite and behaved how she had created her persona to behave. It will be interesting to see how she reconciles these suggestions as her blog continues post book launch and whether or not she feels the need to add a second installment to her memoirs.

16 or 26?

My body and mind are a little confused this week. A weekend involving a gymnastics class, watching some unsigned bands and attending an RN cadet event? Those were favoured past times of my sixteen year old self. So it was with some nostalgia that I met up with an old CCF friend whose URNU ship was moored alongside HMS President for the weekend on Saturday evening, joining the crew for scran which turned out to be spaghetti bolognese and discovering I had not lost the old art of sitting in a group of people I did not know, eating slightly bland food whilst the ship rolled and elbows banged and the noise level rose.

It was with more nervousness than nostalgia when I started my first gymnastics class in 10 years on Sunday afternoon. Despite being incredibly out of shape my body remembered all the moves (even if I am incapable of executing them presently) and I soon reverted to the discipline of a 2 hour advanced class. My muscles the next morning are a different story though as I can feel every single last one of them, long forgotten and protesting at their spring reawakening. Gymnastics class over I hurried to MacDonald's for a quick calorie level and salt upper before heading to watch a friend's band play a battle of the band style competition. My nostalgia returned more sharply than before as I remembered gigs where I would stand uncomfortably (my boyfriend being the bassist of a long forgotten band) watching the set and trying to look 'cool'. These days I care much less whether I fit in aesthetically, my emphasis being on individual style and, dare I say it, comfort. I had also forgotten my make-up bag so I was bare-faced in light blue skinny jeans, white converse, a cotton top/dress my sister brought back from Thailand and a cardigan. Not a drop of black in sight. Although I stood out rather from the rock/indie/metal-goers my 26 year old self didn't even worry about it. That I was also able to consume beer without worrying about ID no doubt helped ease the situation.

So, from one extreme to the other. My 16 year old past-times relived 10 years on, interspersed with my normal 26 year old activities. A dinner with friends on Friday evening followed by a prolonged poker game. Retiring to bed as it got light knowing my days of staying up all night and carrying straight on with the next day are long since over. Housework, laundry, cleaning, tidying, eating lunch complete with chutney I made myself. A visit to the Tate Gallery (members bar for lunch, followed by exhibitions). Walking along the South Bank. Getting up for work.

Book Review: Breath of Corruption by Caro Fraser

I had been waiting to read this book for so long but in the end I was left rather disappointed.

Breath of Corruption is the seventh book in the Caper Court Series which was published at the end of 2007. The series is set around the set of chambers 5 Caper Court, a commercial set which specialises in commercial litigation and shipping, situated in Middle Temple, and the lives of the barristers who work there. There are a core set of central characters: Anthony Cross & Leo Davies who are both members of chambers, Felicity, secretary turned successful clerk and their many and intertwined family members and relationships. This series has been described as the thinking woman's chick-lit and I would agree, despite disliking the phrase chick-lit. The first six books spend as much time describing the law, the legal settings and surroundings as they do on the human stories, meaning that 'law' is almost an extra character. For me at least I enjoyed the books so much more because of their legal issues and also (as the author had been a lawyer herself) their factual correctness. Also, as I work up the road, I have also been to the vast number of places in the series.

So it was with eager anticipation that I finally got round to ordering Breath of Corruption from Amazon (having tried but failed to find it in the book shops of Holborn Circus, High Holborn or Chancery Lane) and settled down to read it last night. My initial instinct when I opened the package was one of puzzlement; where the first six books had seemed to look like 'proper' novels (i.e. the right size, thickness, page texture and so on) this new edition seemed wrong. Too thin, too tall, font spacing odd - it screamed amateur.

It was hard to initially put my finger on what I didn't like about the book once I had finished it. Ostensibly all the components were present. It was still set in Caper Court, the main characters were there in name, the plot vaguely revolved around the law and life in chambers. It was as if someone else had written it though; had decided that they were fed up with waiting to find out what happened next and would continue the story themselves - and that they fell flat because they didn't have a clear idea of how to carry on the story, that they didn't want to make life too hard so they made it half the length, left out all but a handful of characters and invented many new ones and as they had no real legal knowledge their legal setting, description and detail were left lacking. Only Fraser appears to have written it herself - she claims to have been a shipping barrister prior to being a novelist and the first six books left me no reason to doubt her. I now wonder if all the legal detail was in the editing.

On reflection though, the thing which disappointed me the most was the reduction in detail and factual description. In the first six books the legal details transform ordinary stories about relationships to something which I consider more interesting. Fraser portrayed law as interesting, romantic, meaningful, a part of history. She made me love my job more and the historical buildings and framework within which I work. In the books the characters visited the same bars as I do, the same courts, the details of the cases were laid out in such detail perhaps only a fellow lawyer would really bother to read it all and feel such affection for it. Reasons why I read, re-read and re-read again the first six books. The seventh had none of this detail - there was no timelessness to the references. Instead legal detail and real passion for the law gave way to contemporary references (some of which were out of date by the time I read it, 3 months after publication) and two-dimensional relationships. New characters (not a new theme by any means as each book introduced new figures) remained detail-less and face-less. Important characters from the sixth book were not even mentioned in the seventh. In short, I was bitterly disappointed.

... .... ...

EDIT - I feel a little bad. I also left a shorter review on the author's blog and I received this in response:-

"OK. Point taken. It’s been a tough two years, and this book wasn’t as good as it should have been. I’m planning to reintroduce characters such as Sarah to the next one, and take more time over the plot and sub-plots. I hate criticism, but I think in this case it’s well-deserved. Sorry. Watch this space. Caro"

Many a time I've wanted to be able to give an author honest feedback. Such are the wonders of blogging I suppose, but I feel a little bad at being so disappointed by her hard work. Having said that, criticisms of the 7th book are only positive things about the first 6.

NHS saga

At 11pm on Tuesday evening I went to take my pill and realised it was the last in the packet. Unconcerned I went to get a new packet from the first-aid box and discovered that somehow I had managed to forget to get some more. Cue mild panic that I had 24 hours to procure some more. A relatively easy task one might think; I live in London, how hard can it be.

Pills do not qualify as an emergency so I couldn't call my doctor at 9am and make a same-day appointment. I am prepared for that though and for the past 2 years have instead made an appointment with the family planning clinic nearest my work. If they don't have any appointments left for the same day there is usually a clinic one can turn up to and wait. Not ideal but acceptable if one plans ahead and doesn't need same day treatment. I.e. Becomes an issue if you have an 'emergency' and need emergency contraception. I called as soon as I got to work and finally reached a recorded message indicating that they were closed until 12pm. At 12pm I started calling, going round and round their system until it finally kicked me out and then wouldn't let me back in, stating "this line is busy" ad infinitum. At 1.45pm I finally managed to speak to someone. They had no appointments (for that day or the next). Clinic times had also changed. They now closed at 3.30pm. Definitely not ideal. I couldn't leave work at 3pm at no notice. "What do you suggest I do" I enquired, "I really need to see someone today". "Call X in X" she replied and hung up. Called X at X clinic. Yes, they did have a clinic until 6.30pm every day. "Excellent", I said, "so as long as I get there before 6.30, I can see someone?". "No" came the answer " if you're not here before 5.30pm at the latest, we will have filled our quota and you won't be able to be seen". At least that one was open - I tried 3 others to be told the earliest I could be seen was next Tuesday.

Boss allowed me to leave at 5pm so I raced to get there before their seemingly random deadline, running down the road looking at a map hastily printed from google. I made it at 5.32pm only to hear the administrator attempting to turn away the girl at the desk in front of me. I explained the whole saga, the other girl explained hers. Administrator claimed that "on health and safety grounds we can only allow a certain number of people on the list" and "don't you know it's the end of the financial year". We negotiated for a while; in the end I found out that the whole of the area had been on a training course all morning and that all family planning clinics were closed that morning in the borough. Eventually she consented to letting us both wait and if the doctor (the only one on duty) had finished the list before the end of the clinic, she would see us. The administrator herself explained that she should have left 15 minutes earlier and left the clinic, handing me a printed piece of paper stating clinic hours - 5pm to 6.30pm. Presumably she was simply following instructions:she then said she was locking the doors on her way out so that no-one else could get in. And with that, she left. Nothing I could do but sit and wait and sit and hope. With growing frustration I watched the doctor accompany each patient back out into the reception area and place their notes in a basket and collect the next set of notes - a three or four minute time delay accompanying each patient. To the doctor's credit she did see me, eventually, at 6.40pm. She was so rushed she barely listened to any of the questions she fired off in rapid succession. 3 minutes later I had my pills and was back in reception, mission accomplished, finally.

In this specific instance it was in many ways my own fault for my mistake in not realising I needed to get more pills ahead of time, but it raised significant issues in my mind. The majority of the administrators I spoke to were more concerned with quotas, targets and so on than helping patients. No-one volunteered more information until I asked for it. The doctor seemed to be wasting time between each patient by having to collect and return each set of notes herself. There surely must be a more effective system. All of the clinics I spoke to seemed surprised I couldn't attend daytime clinics. I work 9.30 until whenever every day of the week. Thankfully my boss is fairly understanding about personal issues and generally lets me leave on time if I really need to and there is nothing of vital importance happening. The majority of days I wouldn't be able to leave on time as a matter of course. This is unfair on those who are attempting to be responsible by having a job and using effective contraception. If I had needed the morning after pill, such reduced options would mean I would in all probability have been forced to purchase it at a chemist for £25 when I should be able and am entitled to get it free. I could envisage a situation where someone with more dubious morals who found it hard to schedule an appointment for contraception would be tempted to leave it to chance, taking the morning after pill (if they could get it) or even simply arranging an abortion (which seems even easier to get than simply trying to arrange contraception in the first place). Surely we do not want our system to punish those trying to be responsible and to put quotas and targets ahead of patient care and safety? I am pleased people are being sent on training courses, but surely staggering them is a more viable option than crippling the system by closing everything on the same day. Until there is improvement in basic services, I cannot see confidence in the NHS improving.

You're Not the Only One...

A new bloggers collection has been brought to my attention, one which is for a great cause:

......

"One of the things that a lot of us love about blogging is that we share experiences. We may not meet or even see our fellow bloggers but we feel we know them. For many of us it's an important part of feeling connected, almost like having another support system. Recently I tagged some bloggers on memes requiring a bit more info on who they were and what they felt and what I read really moved me. They made me wish I could pay for their writing, to thank them for sharing, to give them something for giving me their words on their personal stories.

From that thought, and with the help of a small team (Sarah from He Loves Me Not, Ariel from From F**k Up To Fab, Ms R from Woman of Experience and Vi from Village Secrets) we've come up with a plan! We're putting together a book for WARCHILD written by bloggers and here's where you come in:

We would like you to submit (to us at bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk) a written piece about something you've been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share. It can literally be about anything: your relationships, your past, a road not taken, being a parent, an illness or your regrets etc.

We've called it "You're Not The Only One" to reflect the camaraderie of blogging.Proceeds will go to WARCHILD and, blatantly following in the same fashion as Troubled Diva (Mike Atkinson)'s Shaggy Blog Stories, we will be publishing it through http://www.lulu.com/.

WARCHILD is a uk based charity but it helps children all over the world, so we'd like as many submissions from as many places as possible."

See Peach for more details.

...

I have submitted my entry which is something I have not yet posted on my blog so is entirely original. If it doesn't make the book I might be persuaded to post it here instead. It's subject is something which happened to me a long time ago, which is, boringly, entitled Earthquake.

A is for ...

I have been tagged again by Diary of a Young Horse:-

The rules are...

• You must post the rules before you give your answers.


• After you've been tagged, you need to update your blog with your middle name and answers.


• You must list one fact about yourself for each letter of your middle name.


• Each fact must begin with that letter.


• If you don't have a middle name, just use your maiden name/last name.


• At the end of your post, you need to tag one person for each letter of your middle name. (Be sure to leave them a comment telling them they've been tagged and need to read your blog for details).

When Echo attempted this, she described characteristics for each of her letters. She only has 3 whereas I have 9. I am going to give actual facts as I cannot and do not want to start thinking about 9 attributes I could label myself. Good or bad.

C is for cartwheels. I spent the vast proportion of my childhood turning cartwheels, whether it be at gymnastics on apparatus, in the garden or on the beach for pleasure, there was something satisfying about the precision and rhythm of a cartwheel - the hand placing, the head alignment, the speed at which one could gain given a long enough space and the way that my hair would brush the floor as I went, one foot, one hand, second hand, one foot, linking them together in long chains.

A is for arriving on time, something which I am notoriously bad at. I used to pride myself on my manners. Now I have realised that I need to update them rather.

T is for Tea, surprisingly enough. My favourite drink be it made the English way or the Moroccan. Both are good; just not at the same time or a mixture of the two. Too much of the Moroccan version would surely rot your teeth.

H is for holidays. Hopefully France and Italy this summer, although both M and I would also like to go to Greece and put some of my studying of Classics into perspective. H is also for hindsight; mostly I wish I could employ the same information as foresight. Life would be a lot easier.

E is for envy. An emotion which is far too easy. Which is another E. I am more envious than easy. I would like to be neither.

R is for rain. The sound of rain pitter-pattering against material makes me think of holidays; the smell of rain in summer is the smell of summer holidays. In my mind's eye, it is always sunny. In my mind's sensory bank it is always raining. And Flanders and Swann always playing. The trusty tardis of a Volvo's windscreen is fogged up by too many occupants and several cups of tea resting on the dashboard. We are damp and salty from sailing and playing on the beach. There are sailing waterproofs and damp towels lying over every seat. Those are the kind of holidays I want my children to look back on.

I is for igloos. I have never seen a proper one or been to the North Pole. I would like to see the Northern Lights. When we were in Finland we were too far south (and in a city).

N is for not being able to get out of bed. I feel this is directly proportional to my inability to arrive anywhere punctually.

E is for eggs. I can't eat eggs cooked in their pure form. I am extremly able to eat eggs once they have been made into cakes or pancakes. I am unable to eat omlettes. I am definitely able to eat chocolate ones.

According to the rules, I have to now tag nine people. If anyone would like to take up this challenge please leave me a comment and I will add a link to you.

Little Miss Rachel

Little Miss Rachel - It came directly from my comments box, but I decided that it fitted rather too well. All week my blog has been bothering me; the line between anonymity and the personal too close for comfort. "Anonymity is the personal blogger's best friend. Lose it at your own peril" warned Petite Anglais, far too late for it to be any use to me.

I haven't achieved notoriety, fame or a book-deal but I haven't exactly managed the anonymity thing very well either. All my family know of it's presence (lurking rather menacingly in the background, providing a slightly irritating self conscious commentary on things, as I know people read it and everyone knows I write it). My name is in fact, my name. Rather dull, rather personal. Little Miss Rachel still involves my name (as I can't really escape it now), but it is more than my name. It conveys, somehow, that it is all about me. Which it seems to be, more and more these days. Not in a good way though, not in a way that I attempt; to give an 'interesting' insight into my life. My posts come across more as rants or insipid descriptions of parties attended, books read. I need to inject something more interesting, something which is more worthwhile reading back into the text.

But somehow, it just doesn't work. So whilst I try and recover from my blogger's block I thought I'd update the template instead.

20 Something Debates (II)

What made you feel more like an adult, your first job or you first car?

Another week, another 20 something debate. Perhaps my attempts at hypothetical debating will offer less offence than my personal observations of a foreign trip.

As with the other debate to which I gave my opinion the situation is hypothetical because I have never owned a car. Yes, Little Miss Rachel, retired Primrose Hill Princess (or whichever moniker one prefers to lift from my comments box) has never owned a car. In fact, she can probably count the number of times she has driven one on no more than her own hands and feet.

I passed my driving licence on my first attempt the day after A level results (something which I perhaps should have given more thought to when I booked the test) despite suffering from shaky knees and, briefly, closing my eyes as I drove onto a dual carriageway. Passing the test was merely forethought for convenience in later life; I had no intention of having a car - bpth parents and a boyfriend had one already so all my lift needs were covered but one day I thought I might want to drive my children around. Plus my parents paid for the lessons. All good reasons. I disappeared off to university shortly after and, apart from occasionally driving the boyfriend's car to keep my hand in, so to speak, I barely drove at all. The year after the boyfriend disappeared to study in America and there ended the car: I had driven two or three times on the motorway and still had trouble parking. There was a gap of three or four years until my youngest sister turned 17, passed her test, bought a car and then realised if she drove she couldn't drink. Somehow she persuaded my mother that if I were on her insurance that my mother could stop providing a taxi service and persuaded me that what I really wanted to do for an entire holiday period was to act as her personal chauffeur. Holidays over, she finished school, started a gap year, sold the car and went off travelling. No more car = no more insurance = no more driving. As we live in London there is no need for us to have a car and on the rare occasions we need one, M borrows his work delivery van.

Logically therefore it would seem that I must have felt more grown-up when I started my first job. Depends on your definition of first job. First time I earned any money or first time that I had to have a job to pay the rent and the bills? My first paid job, as I had always dreamt as a small child during endless games with my sisters, was selling shoes. For £3.53 p/h I worked on the shoe concession in Dorothy Perkins, running up and down stairs to the stockroom and doing the figures for my manager (a 24 year old with a 9 year old son and 6 year old daughter) so she could pretend to her manager she had done them herself. I worked for 6 hours on a Saturday afternoon, coveting the latest shoes which I could purchase at 25% discount and reserve my size the moment that they came into the shop. Once the shop had closed, been tidied and re-stocked I would walk round to Halfords where my boyfriend worked and he would drive me home for supper and so I could change before we went to wherever the gig was that evening. He was the bassist in a band. I may only have been earning £3.53 but, after shoes, it paid for beer. I felt very grown-up.

Looking back on it today, I smile inwardly at how young I seem in the memories and how different things are, 9 years on. My first 'proper' job where if I didn't work, my rent wasn't paid came immediately after graduating from law school in 2005. Suddenly, after 5 years of university where I had worked summer jobs and spent the proceeds on holidays and term-time drinking, with a loan to cover rent and bills, I realised what it meant to work because I had to. I came back from Glastonbury to the end of my student bubble. I was 23 with 2 degrees, an LPC, no job, no money. Life in it's reality kicked in and I started applying for temporary work. 7/7 came and went and I managed to line up a variety of legally related temporary work, mostly reception and switchboard cover which served not only as a money earner but a daily reminder as to why I had gone to law school and fuelled my desire for a training contract all the more.

Obtaining my training contract, finally, at the start of 2007 was the first time when I went to work feeling an adult. A year and a half of work (I managed to get a semi-legally-related permanent job in September 2005) had allowed me know what it was like to work, to be tired, to have deadlines and to achieve them. The start of my training contract was more than a new job, it was the job. The start of my career.

A clarification

Blogging - it's a hard line to tread. Expressing opinions without offending other readers or family members whilst staying true to myself. Most family members know I have a blog. I didn't realise anything of them really read it. For the record, I stand by my opinions but I would like to make the following points:

1. I had a fantastic time at the wedding. I thought it was the perfect day for the pair in question. I enjoyed every aspect of the day with the exception of having to walk through snow in high-heeled shoes and a floor length dress. I have been looking forward to seeing all the photographs, checking facebook morning and evening to see if anyone has uploaded any. Despite all of the things which had to be organised and the business of the weeks leading up to the wedding I have been missing both bride and groom since our return to London and am constantly wondering where they are and how they are enjoying their honeymoon.

2. Whilst on reflection I did not care much for Finland I enjoyed the experience, learning about a new culture and country.

3. IBS, stomach problems and on-going illness and malaise do not mix with a change in diet and time differences. This was not necessarily because it was Finland. Recovering from the norovirus and flying in a large party of many ages do not really lend themselves to an enjoyable flight. Trying to carry out bridesmaid duties whilst stuffing anti-diarrhea tablets and paracetamol down one's throat whilst dying for a proper cup of tea and some recognisable food which did not make one run to the loo do not make for a happy person. Their views as a result may be slightly warped, particularly if they are prone to pessimism and moaning.

4. I would not, myself, personally choose to fly RyanAir if there was another feasible option or choice. I was perfectly happy with all the arrangements made on my behalf and I realise that when travelling with a 92 year old Granny in a wheelchair going via somewhere else and a train is not a viable option. I loved the hotel in which we stayed, the views and the architecture. I enjoyed learning how to take a sauna Finnish style. I was incredibly grateful that I did not have to book any of the flights or hotel.

So, in conclusion, my sincere apologies to anyone that I may have offended by either the tone or content of my reflections on Finland. I have learnt my lesson that regardless of whether I stand by my opinions I should consider the reader and how they will be affected by my words.

It does make me wonder though how many people truly read all of what I have written or whether they, under the guise of anon, feel simply like making sweeping comments. I really don't feel like I acted like an embarrassing English person abroad. My reflections were made afterwards and were admittedly probably skewed from having been ill the entire time, exacerbated by the food which I ate. I really don't feel that I in any way made the wedding all about me (which is why I was forced to take the 3 or 4 min taxi ride as I didn't want the bride to know that on any other occasion I would have remained in the loo), although if anyone who attended it would like to contradict me, anonomously or otherwise, I will apologise. I don't even feel I made the week all about me, but again, if opinion differs I will stand corrected and learn from it.

Here Comes Your Man

they knelt before the priest, a curious mix of grown up but looking so young (rather like a new school child in their first blazer and tie), her in an intricately pleated silk dress of her own design, he in his own version of morning dress. he had stood nervously at the front of the sparse but cavernous cathedral expecting her imminent arrival. the bridesmaids led the way up the aisle and then her entrance. his face lit up and he beamed at his bride as she walked confidently on the arm of her father, her outside appearance giving away none of the anxiety of the day to which she had professed as she had been helped into her dress.

they knelt before the priest, watched by 3 bridesmaids and his best man, in front of an audience of 75 of their closest friends and family, dwarfed by the magnificence of the cathedral. he helped her back to her feet and they looked at each other in excitement and with true love as they spoke their vows and exchanged their rings. they left the church as man and wife, showered with rice which glistened in her hair as she listened to his speech in which he stated that love changes ones reality, like a tiger in a room, and she was part tiger, part love of his life.

they stood together in front of their friends as the music started to play, and they danced the quickstep and their faces next to each other were a perfect emotion of love, of stillness in the spinning room, in the spinning world.

Finland (II)

I feel my first post about Finland may have been misleading and made me out to be a whiny Brit abroad who is an embarrassment abroad (paraphrasing Emma, in any event) to which I disagree.

I think it is perfectly acceptable to visit somewhere with an open mind and then on return and reflection to decide that one didn't much like it. I expected it to be cold and snowy, which it was (although I didn't somehow expect that all the snow would be piled in great huge dirty heaps next to the road). I had hoped I would like the food better (although as I had been told that Chirac thought the only thing worse than British food to be Finnish food, I wasn't that surprised) and I made an effort to try traditional foods, sampling meatballs, herrings, reindeer, rice cake things but having to draw the line at black-pudding sausage. I found negotiating a wedding in high-heels and a floor length formal gown tedious due to the snow and cold but I had a good time. I found the change in food and drink to make my stomach worse so that by the time we left I had barely eaten anything for a few days. I had read about the history of the country before we left, although I accept I mis-remembered some of the facts.

I went to an espionage museum and learnt about espionage and the Finnish role in spying, which given their geographical position is greater than I had ever imagined. I went to the Lenin museum (in the Workers Hall where Lenin met Stalin in Tampere) and learnt about the Soviet-Finnish relationship, about how Lenin had moved there in 1905 and remained there until 1907 and that he returned again in 1917. I learnt also that he had been instrumental in helping Finland achieve independence in 1917 and that his name was one of the first on the petition for independence. I found the museum to be insular and almost propaganda based (despite what the website says), that nothing was explained on a global level, but as it is run by the Finland-Russia Society this did not surprise me.

I was intrigued by the architecture of Tampere. It was rather like stepping into a Lowry painting and the place looked at once Russian and like (what I imagine) Manchester at the time of the industrial revolution. Tampere is full of textile factories, which to my mind are characterised by their distinctive red brickwork and long tall brick chimneys. It had me itching for a sketch-book but by the time I had a moment to contemplate any drawing the fog had come down and it was hard to make out much at all.

Finland, Finland, Finland

Ordinarily, I write for myself; my thoughts and opinions on what I see, read, watch, my views on life as I live it. I pride myself on being honest about my thoughts, feelings and how I record them.

Occasionally, I have to decide that there are bigger things in life than my thoughts and on reflection, this is one of them. Therefore, I have decided to remove what was previously here although I have left the comments.

Wedding Preparations

This time next week I shall be in Finland for M's brother's wedding. The hen party safely over, it has been a frantic few weeks helping with the various other preparations. I have been helping put together my bridesmaid dress in sessions which felt rather like advanced couture dress-making the modular version as I learnt extremely quickly why one does not, if one can help it, cut fabric from a piece of material spread on a sheet over floorboards in a room which only has side-lighting ("it looks like a mouse bit it out of the fabric Rachel") or why when one is sewing French-seams it is better to have in mind the overall objective first rather than trying to do each of the four parts in turn and find that mistakes made on each stage have dire implications for the progress of the seam. Still, the next time I need to make a boned bodice I am well equipped to make a decent stab at it likewise the next time I need to cut out pattern pieces from silk chiffon crepe I know that I am to refuse.


Given the amount of wedding preparations going on around us it was nice to escape for a night out with M yesterday. We decided to celebrate our anniversary with a meal at Firehouse in South Kensington. The food was wonderful, the service even better and we had a fabulous night. We spent three hours over our meal, ending with chocolate fondue with strawberries, raspberries and marshmallows to dunk and beautifully made espressos before heading down to the bar to linger over mojitos.