Obama is the Antichrist!

Posted on November 6, 2008 by Hails

I’m not one to throw myself passionately into politics, as you may or may not be aware.

Quite frankly, a lot of it bores me. Switching the TV on to a scene of a lot of old farts in stuffy suits, attempting to argue whilst holding marbles in their mouths and prefixing every remark with “the honourable gentleman”, is guaranteed to instantly turn me off. Plus there’s my previously mentioned apathy and fatalism – difficult to become enthused about something if you can’t see how it’s going to make any difference to anything, right? And of course, there’s the additional hindrance of having grown up as a John Lennonesque sixties-style hippyish dreamer in Northern Ireland – and, more specifically, Ballymena. Politics, to me, meant bickering, sectarianism, bitterness, idiocy, hateful murals and vicious graffiti. So I steered well clear of it all, locking myself away from the nonsense, refusing to follow the news, and playing Imagine at full volume in my room. I’m like a child who sticks her fingers in her ears and yells “Na-na-na, I can’t hear you!”, only I’ll be singing rousing peace anthems instead.

However. It has become something of an impossibility to avoid all the hoo-hah about The Big Election, even having managed to sail through the last few months blissfully unaware of any details more specific than the names of the major candidates. Yesterday, to my genuine surprise, I found myself reading about the U.S. Electoral College system in an effort to educate myself; today, I was halfway through an interesting blog post about the potential effects of the results on Baltic and Scandinavian countries before I even realised it. And last night, having read and inquired about a little walk that was taking place in London, involving a group of people in Guy Fawkes masks, I found myself being forced to watch V for Vendetta – which turned out to be one of the best films I have ever seen, and perhaps the most disturbing. But that’s another post, I suppose. The point is, I think I’m shedding some apathy. Yikes.

To return to my main point (I think I had one), I still don’t have any particularly strong feelings about the U.S. election, nor about the new president, nor about the defeated candidate and his sidekick. What is getting me pretty riled up, though, is the astonishing series of Facebook status updates on the subject. Now, I don’t claim for a second to know what the atmosphere is like in certain parts of America right now; to know what it feels like to have a strong preference for a particular political party and then have to watch that party lose; to know what it’s like to worry about raising your family in such an uncertain economic climate. I do, however, know that it’s pointless to gripe about something when it’s done, just because it didn’t go your way – and the constant flow of negative, depressed status updates along the lines of “everything’s going to hell”, “it’s the end of the world as we know it” and “hello Communism” have me completely baffled. The most amazing thing about it to me is that the majority of these bitter, hopeless assessments come from devout Christians.

Now, obviously the problem here is the fact that Obama is clearly the Antichrist. That’s evident to anyone who knows the Bible. I’m not suggesting for one moment that it’s utterly outrageous to attack and condemn another human being before he’s even had a chance to prove himself, based on evidence as overwhelming as him (a) being popular with the masses, (b) having a first name that rhymes with “Iraq”, “Hussein” as a middle name and a surname that’s almost “Osama”, and (c) promising to work towards peace. It’s quite clear from that that he’s here to lead the world straight into the Tribulation.

No – no, you know what? I can’t even do the sarcasm thing here, because I want to scream. This sort of thing is exactly what has led me to drift further and further away from the fundamentalist, closed-minded and quite honestly verging on insane version of Christianity that I allowed myself to become entangled with in Norn Iron. I won’t let anyone tell me that I’m not a Christian; however, I’ll be horrified if anyone thinks it means I’m this sort of prejudiced, bigoted, irrational… well, OK, I’m a bit irrational. But definitely not the other two.

Here’s the thing. Even if this Obama guy is the Antichrist, even if he has a series of devilish plots up his sleeve for the destruction of humanity, even if he is basically a satan in a suit (and I swear, that is what a large number of people seem to believe)…

Aren’t Christians meant to trust in God?

So what is the point of all this hate mongering, hysteria and woe-is-us caterwauling? Even if you firmly believe the whole Antichrist story, which you’re perfectly entitled to do, surely you should then believe that if Obama is the One, he had to come to power in order for prophecy to be fulfilled? So what’s the surprise? Why all the bitching, if you were convinced of his identity and therefore knew that there was no preventing his election victory?

But what gets me even more is the sheer childishness of this bizarre “now we’re done for” attitude in the first place. What about hope? What about faith? What about not judging your brother? What about loving your neighbour? What about – here’s a meek suggestion – not deciding that a fellow human being, innocent until proven guilty, who has worked hard and wants to make an effort to pull a struggling nation up and out of troubled times, is the Antichrist? What about giving him a shot (I wouldn’t normally feel the need to clarify that I’m not proposing the assassination of the new president, but now I’m too scared not to) and sharing in the fresh hope and excitement of the rest of your nation? What is the point of all this doom and gloom? What will it change? What will it achieve?

What’s done is done. Stop the superior, “people should’ve listened to me, I know better” whining, and give the sulking a rest. It won’t change anything, and it’s just making you sound like a spoiled child.

I feel the need to apologise for this post, because I’m generally too afraid of offending people to risk posting about What I Really Think. But I’m not going to.

I can be all superior too, you know.

Filed under: america, anger, apathy, changes, complaining, confusion, rant, sad, sheer silliness, woe | 10 Comments »

Knit-picking

Posted on November 3, 2008 by Hails

The search for fluffy winterwear has been ongoing since I last blogged about it. I think it’s become an obsession, actually, but at least it’s an entertaining obsession. I can’t walk down the street without looking interestedly at everyone I pass, taking in their hats, scarves, gloves, fluffy-hooded coats and so on; traditional Estonian knitwear shops have become my favourite haunts.

Yet despite all this, I am still seriously lacking in the winter clothing department. I do have a nice fluffy scarf and an even nicer fluffy hat. I do not, however, have gloves, jumpers, a coat, or (most importantly) a Silly Hat. And being a girl of strange priorities, it is the latter that most concerns me. I cannot find the right Silly Hat anywhere. To be slightly more accurate, I cannot find the right Silly Hat anywhere that will charge less than twenty quid for it, and I am not the sort of person who is going to pay twenty quid for a hat, silly or otherwise.

And so Plan B has come into operation. If you can’t buy it… knit it. Excitedly, I ventured into a craft shop and browsed through the overwhelmingly large selection of wool, eventually choosing a fluffy black one with bright neon colours through it, and picked out some needles. And not only have I been knitting, I have been circular knitting! (I can’t help but feel that I’m several large steps closer to being Crazy Cat Lady now.) It shall be decorated with mad tassels and pompoms and the like. Hooray! It’s all gone surprisingly well, until the present moment, when I am having to take a break from the joining/casting-off three-needle bind-off process before I lose my temper altogether and rip the entire thing to shreds. I mean, honestly. The pattern (yes, I also googled “free online knitting patterns” – I’m getting a rocking chair soon, too) said “Easy Funky Hat!”, and it lied. Either that, or I am not a natural knitter.

There’s got to be an easier way, I moaned sorrowfully as I wrestled with a stitch that was stubbornly refusing to be pulled over another stitch. Like… buying a hat. Riho glanced at me, or rather at what was visible of me underneath a large and frightening tangle of multicoloured wool. Ah, he said cheerfully, but then you wouldn’t have all the fun of making it! He is fortunate to have escaped without some sort of puncture wound.

Anyway, assuming I actually get it finished, it seems that I have quite a bit of wool left over, so my next project will be a pair of mittens to match my hat. A spot of research into mitten patterns online has indicated that these are approximately a squillion times more difficult and confusing than the hat, which didn’t look the slightest bit difficult or confusing when I first read the pattern (and given that the part that has caused me so much anguish came from one simple sentence beginning “To finish, all I did was…”, I can’t help but feel slightly duped). Still. They’re only small, right? How hard can it be?

And just to finish with an amusing observation, I was delighted to see a knitting pattern for the Lovers’ Mitten. This is one large mitten with two cuffs, so that each “lover” can put a hand in, and then they can hold hands “whilst walking in cold weather”.

They really do think of everything, these days.

Filed under: anger, cold, confusion, fashion, fun, hats, knitting, romance, simplicity, stress | 3 Comments »

I have a lettuce, and I’m not afraid to use it.

Posted on October 9, 2008 by Hails

Since recent posts seem to have involved supermarkets and customer service, I thought that this would be as good a time as any to tell you my tale about the time I was attacked with a lettuce by an angry Chinese woman. Doesn’t everyone have a story like this to tell?

When I was a student in Glasgow, I had a part time job at the Sainsbury’s Local on Sauchiehall Street. I didn’t mind it – the shop was always busy and so the time generally flew past. However, the one thing I hated was the appearance of the Girl With The Gun at the end of the day. It sent shivers down my spine to watch her walking around the shop zapping perishable goods with bright orange “reduced” stickers.

It was at this point, you see, that two distinct groups of people invariably emerged from wherever they’d been lurking. They were the old women (the kind with very hairy chins and trembling hands, who pay for everything in copper coins) and the middle-aged Chinese women. They all made straight for the sea of orange stickers, and began filling their baskets. Before you knew it, you had a queue the length of the shop, just before the end of your shift, full of women with overflowing baskets of reduced items. It made my heart sink every time one of those baskets appeared at my till, because it took a painfully long time to peel the sticker off each item, enter the reduction code, scan the item, type in the new price and then repeat the process at least a dozen times, while the next customer – generally a suit ‘n’ tie type of businessman only just getting home from work – waited impatiently with his solitary pint of milk or microwave meal for one, glaring at you in annoyance. In fact, I frequently tried to either rush through or draw out a particular transaction in order to avoid being the unfortunate cashier who got the next basket of orange stickers.

With the old ladies, it was an assortment of bread, milk, cheese, ham and those sorts of basic groceries. With the Chinese women, quite inexplicably, it was always vegetables; and usually an entire basket of identical vegetables. I never quite understood it – and it was the most annoying one of all, because you couldn’t scan in multiples of reduced items. They had to be done individually, one sodding carrot at a time, even if there were twenty all at the same price.

Anyway, late one Friday night, a basket of orange-stickered Romaine lettuces presented itself at my till. Wearily, I went through the peeling, typing and scanning process, packed the customer’s bag, smiled politely, took payment, gave change, and went on to the next customer. Out of the corner of my eye, though, I watched the lettuce woman inspecting her receipt. The orange sticker people were always the worst. They went through the receipt with frightening intensity, and were almost gleeful if they found a mistake. Not this woman, however. She was utterly furious. Slightly alarmed, I paused in my dealing with the milk-and-microwave-meal man to observe her approaching my till with all the gentleness of a raging bull.

She barely spoke a word of English, but from her raised voice and hand waving and brandishing of the receipt I managed to deduce that I had missed one of the orange stickers and charged her 20p more than I should have. It was an easy (and common) enough mistake, and I apologised and asked her to wait as I finished with my customer. This was not the right thing to do. Incensed, she removed the aforementioned lettuce from her bag and slammed it down in front of me, pounding the counter with her fist and shouting in a language that I had no hope of understanding. I tried to explain that I could not open the till to give her the 20p until I’d finished the current transaction; she, in return, screamed “Racist! Thief!” and tried to hit me over the head with the lettuce.

“Steady on, hen!” said my customer, looking nervously at her, as I panickily tried to open the till without properly completing the transaction. I was too flustered to think straight – everyone was staring, the sound of undesirable accusations filled the air, and an irate customer was trying to knock me out with a reduced vegetable. She flat-out refused to let me press any buttons on the till, and when she actually reached for me across the counter I hurriedly fumbled in my pocket, produced 20p of my own, and flung it down in front of her. She did not appear to want it, and continued to yell “Racist! Thief! Bad girl!” for all to hear. The duty manager, fetched by a customer who clearly feared for my life, appeared on the scene like a knight in shining armour, and I shakily explained the situation to the best of my ability (given that I didn’t really understand it myself). His attempts to calm the woman down failed completely, and in his polite but firm manner he asked the lettuce woman to step outside. By way of response, she attempted to slap me.

I want to assure you, dear reader, that I am not making any of this up. There exist people in the world who will wish to kill you for accidentally charging them an extra 20p for a lettuce. The manager hastily stepped between us and put his hand on lettuce woman’s arm to guide her towards the exit. “Racist!! Bad man!” screamed lettuce woman, pummelling him with her fists. I mean, honestly.

By the time he got rid of her, apologised to the customers, and gently escorted me outside to put a cigarette in my mouth, I was bright red and not sure whether to laugh or cry. The manager wore a similar expression when, at the end of my shift, he summoned me to his office and informed me that lettuce woman’s friend’s daughter had been on the phone to discuss a reported incident of racial discrimination. She was – of course – a lawyer specialising in that particular field. Thankfully she was also sane, and accepted the manager’s account of the incident with a laugh and an apology, but still. What an Utter Raving Lunatic.

As you can imagine, the sight of orange sticker baskets caused me a great deal more anxiety from then on…

Filed under: anger, boss, confusion, customer service, Fear, food, foreign languages, freak-out, Glasgow, insults, irrational behaviour, money, rage, Sainsbury's, sheer silliness, temper | 3 Comments »

Withdrawal. Again. (Or “In which I kindly, with the patience of a saint, refrain from exploding and injuring all the imbeciles that seem to surround me”)

Posted on September 22, 2008 by Hails

Hey Hayley! screams the irritatingly enthusiastic message from Facebook. Now you can throw a spaghetti cat at your friends!

Isn’t that marvellous?

I have been up since the early hours, on train after bus after train and all but strip-searched at the airport by a possible witch (with PMS). I have been shaken around inside one of those fluroescent tin cans that Ryanair call planes, with my knees somewhere near my ears and my right ear so severely popped that no amount of swallowing is prompting a return to a normal level of hearing. I have only vaguely recovered from my food poisoning incident, and so the ridiculously-priced sandwich I attempted to eat earlier is now lurching around quite dangerously in my stomach. I have in my hand a ticket from Riga Airport to Riga Coach Station to Tallinn Coach Station – only it appears that there is no bus to Riga Coach Station, despite the fact that I have paid for it, and so now I must find a bus into the city and do all the ridiculous Excuse me, do you speak English? nonsense again. And probably pay more money, too. There is also a small child running up and down the airport lounge screaming blue murder, and his parents appear to be deaf or just defeated.

I may also need to mention that I have not had a cigarette since approximately 10pm last night, and I want to kill the small child, its parents, Facebook’s Superpoke team, Eurolines bus company, hotdog vendors worldwide, Michael O’Leary, and the Swedish airport shuttle driver who tried to draw it to the attention of the entire bus when I accidentally tried to pay him in Slovakian money, not really seeing the difference in the notes. I will not, of course, kill any of these people, because underneath it all I am actually a really nice person. Not quite Julie Andrews, but perhaps at least a little bit Marge Simpson.

And then I log into Facebook and see a new notification. Ah, I think gratefully, a little note or message from someone who loves me, is thinking about me, or just wants to say hello! But no. It is a message that proudly explains my new ability to throw spaghetti cats at my friends, as if it is something I have been longing for, and indeed something that will genuinely improve my life. I am disgusted with everything in general. I have just purchased a vodka at the bar. I do not care that I can’t afford it. It is the only way I am going to survive.

And it tastes crap without a cigarette. As does the world.

Filed under: airport, anger, cold turkey, complaining, decisions, mental health, rage, rant, smoking, tiredness, travel | 8 Comments »

I prefer trains.

Posted on September 18, 2008 by Hails

An hour. A whole sodding hour I spent packing and repacking my bag before I left Vienna to catch my flight from Bratislava. I really don’t understand how I have exactly the same amount of stuff before every flight, and yet each time it seems to take up more and more space in my bag no matter how much squishing and squashing and rolling up I do.

Still, I got it all in (and, you see, part of the problem is that I can’t just be content with that if I’m to get it on as hand luggage – it needs not only to fit, but to fit with room to spare. Not bulging at the sides, as on the rather disastrous flight from Eindhoven to Stansted, which saw me removing items in a fluster whilst on the plane, being watched by a disapproving flight attendant and several middle-aged Cockney geezers who felt the need to tut at me, as I attempted to make the bag go into the overhead lockers). And then I put on all my extra jumpers, jackets etc. to go through security. Waddling along like a plump little barrel, I deposited my bag and outer jacket on the conveyor belt.

Sadly, it seems that the fatness of my face does not quite match the fatness of my body when I’m wearing 10 layers of clothing, and the Slovakian security woman, suspecting that my body was actually a long way beneath my clothes, indicated that I should remove more jackets. Sweating unpleasantly, I struggled out of a few more items and added them to the heap before going through to collect everything at the other side.

But no. Open, said the next security woman, indicating my bag. I groaned inwardly, realising what was about to happen. And yes – she went through all my stuff in a very half-hearted, disinterested manner, pulling all my tightly-crammed items of clothing loose, and then said OK. It’s not even like there was anything in there that shouldn’t have been (and once again I think of the Eindhoven incident, where I ended up flinging my shampoo etc. at someone and saying Take it! Keep it! Throw it away, I don’t care – I’m going to miss my flight!). She just fancied a nosey.

Fuming, I stared hopelessly at my bag, once so meticulously organised, now in a state of disarray. There was nothing for it but to try to cram everything in again. And now, as I sit at the gate waiting for my flight, I realise to my dismay that the bag is once again bulging at the sides, so I’ve another battle with an overhead locker to get through before I can relax for an hour.

I hate flying.

Filed under: airport, anger, flying, packing, tiredness, travel | 4 Comments »

Big wheels keep on turnin’…

Posted on September 10, 2008 by Hails

Oi! Someone prodded me and woke me from my dream about a comfortable bed and a shower that didn’t have clumps of hair in the drain. This is the last stop!

Drowsily, I uncurled from the foetal position in the back of the van where I’d been sleeping for the last hour, and slid out of the door on autopilot in a most undignified manner. The hostel’s shuttle driver looked at me in amusement as he reached me my bag and took a leisurely puff of his cigarette. Do you need directions, or do you know Amsterdam? he asked kindly, watching me attempt to adjust to being upright. I looked around at the masses of tourists and clouds of marijuana smoke. I know Amsterdam, I replied gloomily. With a thank you and a goodbye, I left the excellent Flying Pig experience behind and let the crazed Amsterdam crowd suck me in and push me along. I was very nearly run over by a tram, which didn’t help my already less than favourable feelings towards the city, especially as the driver watched me pausing and checking him out to gauge whether he was stopped for a while or ready to go, and then launched forward with an evil grin as soon as I was in his path, getting my bag’s wheels stuck in the track as I tried to leap out of his way.

I grumpily lit a cigarette outside the train station, and was immediately and predictably accosted by a homeless guy. I reached him my cigarette before he could even begin his story, and lit another for myself. He was very keen to talk, and I was impressed by how polite I managed to force myself to be, despite the gloom, the rain, the noisy construction work all around, and the depressing crowds of ignorant, drunk and stoned tourists all around me. Halfway through the cigarette, he began his appeal, complete with background story and request for money for a hostel (and not, of course, for drink or drugs). I used to be a sucker for this sort of thing, and gave to every beggar I passed on the streets, until a woman at St. George’s Cross tube station in Glasgow called me all the names under the sun one day because I didn’t have any change – despite the fact that I’d given her 50p every day that I saw her for about 4 months.

I’m sorry, I explained to Amsterdam homeless man, I’m travelling around, and I’m broke. I don’t earn a lot of money, so I don’t really have any to spare. Just the cigarette! I’m sorry. His demeanor changed, and he scowled at me. His next sentence was in Dutch, and probably not very nice. And then he walked off in a rage – but not before he spat at me. Spat at me! And still holding my cigarette in his hand! I resisted the urge to swear loudly after him, and instead stubbed out my cigarette and marched very determinedly to the ticket desk.

Utrecht, please, I said to the bored looking guy behind the desk. One way or return? he asked. I smiled.

One way, I said firmly.

Filed under: anger, charity, conversations, ingratitude, insults, smoking, temper, tourists, trams, travel | 4 Comments »

Do you know the pancake man?

Posted on May 19, 2008 by Hails

Eating out in Tallinn is fun. I’ve yet to have a bad meal here, and not only is the food delicious (and cheap), but the restaurants themselves are a delight to visit. From the kitsch and twee, to the traditional and rustic, to the ultra-modern and cool, each one is an excitingly new experience for a Ballymena girl whose only experience of eating out involves words like Wetherspoons and Pub Grub.

I’m particularly enthusiastic about Bann Cook, a funky-dunky pancake bar tucked away in a corner of a shopping centre. Yes, a pancake bar. Look!

I don’t know if I’m just incredibly uninformed, but I’d never previously heard of the concept of having a savoury-filled pancake for lunch. I think it’s fabulous. The idea of having a speciality pancake bar, doubly so. And the place itself: it’s probably wrong of me to use a term like ‘funky-dunky’ even once in a post, never mind twice, but it’s the only one that does it justice. We’re talking about a bar where you order your pancake (which can contain just about anything you want it to – are you grasping the sheer marvellousness of this discovery yet?!) and then watch them make it on a big, hot wheel thing. Then you eat it in the coolest little seating area, with brightly coloured walls and pictures, transparent orange and yellow seats, and bright orange glass lightshades. So. Very. Cool.

I was, however,  a little confused by this sign, which seemed to be sending out aggressive vibes that weren’t really in keeping with the cheerful feel of the place:

As far as I could tell, Angry Pancake Man was pointing warningly at us, and I explained this to Riho as he tried to figure out what was going on with the dude’s hand. “He’s threatening us with something,” I mused thoughtfully. Riho looked dubious. “Are you sure?” he asked uncertainly. I nodded with the smug air of one who has spent two days chanting Estonian words at a Learn A Language CD-ROM and is therefore practically fluent. “Head aega means goodbye,” I explained knowingly, “so head isu is bound to be some variation of that.” I paused, my mental wheels of logic spinning rapidly. “Therefore,” I concluded confidently, “Angry Pancake Man is telling us that we can’t sit here if we’re not eating anything. And he’s pointing us towards the exit. If you’re not buying food… see ya!“

Riho did not look at all convinced. I don’t know why he can’t just accept my linguistic brilliance.

Anyway, I’ve just looked up each individual word, and, loosely translated, it seems that Angry Pancake Man is actually saying something like “Great to see you here… enjoy your meal!”. Which is close enough, as I explained to Riho. He looked incredulously at me. “No it’s not!” he exclaimed, “you were trying to insist that he was saying buy something or bugger off!”

I did think it was a little out of keeping with the general attitude of the service industry here. Shop assistants do not hassle you, instead preferring to let you browse in peace and waiting until you request their help before approaching you. Warning signs never issue threats, but gently highlight the issue in question without being all overbearing and authoritarian about it. It just goes to show how accustomed I am to all the “DO NOT DO THIS”, “THERE’LL BE NONE OF THAT”, “DON’T THINK ABOUT TOUCHING THOSE” and “IF YOU SO MUCH AS LOOK AT THIS WE’LL FINE YOU £500 AND SERIOUSLY CONSIDER THROWING YOU IN JAIL” signs that scream at us from every conceivable place in the UK. My instinct was to assume Cheerful Pancake Man was actually Angry Pancake Man, and automatically turn his kind, hospitable words into a harsh threat, and his friendliness into arrogant aggression.

Much as I continue to despair of my continuing and depressingly consistent failure to grasp the language here, I must admit that I’m actually very relieved to have been so wrong about Angry Pancake Man.

Filed under: anger, confusion, conversations, culture, Estonia, food, foreign languages, funky-dunky, happy, pancakes, restaurants | 10 Comments »

Guest Spot #2

Posted on May 7, 2008 by Hails

Recently, there were a few requests for a farewell post from everyone’s favourite lunatic, Kat the Cat. I don’t know whether to be proud or hurt that her writing is clearly much more popular than mine, but my blog is as much for my readers as for myself, and I have grudgingly given in. And so, for the second (and final) time, I give you…

Kat’s Mewsings

One is not amused.

One has had the feeling forrr some time now that Something is definitely Going On, owing to the appearrrance of many boxes and bags in one’s house and Yerrr Wumman’s apparrrent deterrrmination to cause as much chaos and disrrruption to one’s norrrmally strrress-frrree life as possible. Then people starrrted calling rrround and hugging Yerrr Wumman quite tearrrfully. One thought perrrhaps Yerrr Wumman was dying, and was even starrrting to feel a little sympathetic.

But then, tonight, one overrrhearrrd a most distrrressing converrrsation between Yerrr Wumman and Yerrr Otherrr Wumman Who Seems To Have Been Living In One’s House Forrr Severrral Months Without Everrr Asking One’s Perrrmission. It seems that Yerrr Wumman is leaving the countrrry at the weekend! Not that one is going to miss herrr, orrr anything, with herrr ditherrring and forrrrgetting to let one in when one is stuck outside in the rrrain. Why, just today she attempted to thrrrow one out with a bag of videos and clothes, claiming not to have known that one had currrled up inside the bag forrr a much-needed nap! No, it is more a case of the fact that one is apparrrently going to be homeless.

One hearrrd herrr telling Yerrr Otherrr Wumman that she can’t find anyone to adopt one. One is morrre than a little offended. Yerrr Otherrr Wumman is going to rrremain in one’s house forrr a few weeks, but afterrr that, it seems that one is going to be out on one’s earrr.

And so, rrreaders, one asks you to searrrch deep within yourrr hearrrt until you discoverrr yourrr need forrr a Verrry Imporrrtant Cat. One simply cannot become some kind of vagabond, reduced to living on the strrreets like Evil Tom Cat (one’s ex). One has taken the matterrr into one’s own paws. Let the offerrrs commence, please.

And good rrriddance to Yerrr Wumman. One is cerrrtain that one can do so much betterrr…

Filed under: anger, blogging, cat, conversations, Moving house, Uncategorized, woe | 1 Comment »

What is up with WordPress?!

Posted on May 7, 2008 by Hails

I am not terribly happy right now.

Having just written a typically fabulous post and hit ‘publish’, it published only the title. Not only that, but when I went back to the last saved draft (and I save every few minutes), it showed… only the title.

Someone should pay for this.

Filed under: anger, blogging, confusion | 3 Comments »

Come into the light

Posted on April 2, 2008 by Hails

Tap-tap-tap!

He Who Brings The Coffee is tapping repeatedly on the calculator.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap!

“Broken,” he announces fatalistically.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap! Thump! Bang!

Zed and I glance at him in mild annoyance as we look up from our paperwork in time to see him lose his temper with the unfortunate calculator and throw it across the floor. “Put it in the bin,” he grunts in disgust, getting up and stomping off in search of another calculator. Zed retrieves the “broken” one from the floor and quietly presses the “ON” button. We continue with our paperwork.

He Who Brings The Coffee stares at Zed, upon returning to the desk to find her punching numbers into the broken calculator. “Here!” he exclaims, irritated. “Give me that!” He snatches it back, and we hide our smiles at his incredulity. “Did you press “ON”?” I enquire innocently. He glares at me. “Repeatedly! Did you not see me?” He retreats to his chair with the calculator.

Tap-tap-tap!

“Argh!”

The calculator sails through the air again, and we look up in surprise as it lands at our feet once more. “Broken! Put it in the bin! Put it in the bin!” growls He Who Brings The Coffee.

“It’s just solar powered,” says Zed, calmly. “You’re in a dark corner over there.”

“Well that’s absolutely no use to anybody! Put it in the bin.” glowers He Who Brings The Coffee.

“OK, why don’t you use the battery one, and we’ll use this one at the desk, under this light?” I suggest, trying to be practical.

“Put it in the bin!” repeats He Who Brings The Coffee, raising his voice.

Zed and I look at each other. We put it in the bin. He Who Brings The Coffee goes off, no doubt in search of more things to throw. “Don’t even think about it!” he calls over his shoulder.

Zed freezes, her hand only halfway to the bin.

Filed under: anger, boss, calculator, complaining, confusion, conversations, freak-out, rant, temper, work | 1 Comment »

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