Cold without snow brings evil (and miscellaneous observations)

Exhibit A:
Very early on Saturday, while we were waiting for the taxi we booked to take us to Edinburgh Airport, it was bloody cold. We waited for 30 minutes. The taxi did not show up, so we had to drive ourselves to Edinburgh.

Exhibit B:
I lost my hat somewhere in Edinburgh Airport. It fell out of my coat pocket. I only had my hat because it was cold (why else).

Exhibit C:
See exhibit A. Our flight back to Scotland landed in Glasgow, so it was another three hours on three buses (Glasgow Flyer £4.20 each, City Link £5.70 each, Edinburgh Airport Link £2.50 each) to get ourselves to Edinburgh and pick up the car. Before we could even get home. In the cold.

Exhibit D:
Our boiler broke today. It’s fucking freezing.

Ample evidence that winter has it in for me — no snow and plenty of horrible stuff going around.

And my back (left side) is currently killing me. I have a strange habit of leaning to the left while driving, and that’s usually when I get this pain. But I’m sitting at my desk. I’ve been trying to reposition myself all morning to relieve the soreness, but no dice so far. I need armrests on this chair or something. And hot packs.

The Internet tells me I need to get more exercise in order to help stave off back pain. That would help if I had the time to exercise — what am I supposed to do, run up and down the aisle of the bus? Or not spend time eating in favour of getting exercise? Project Un-dull-ify or not, I simply have very little time to do anything more than get up, go to work, come home from work, make dinner, eat dinner, wash the dishes, shower, and go to bed. Rinse and repeat. Weekends are spent catching up on laundry and chores if we aren’t already meant to be somewhere else.

I wan to comprain about Edinburgh

Neil drives to work most days (it’s cheaper than public transport if he includes parking fees). So I take the bus into Edinburgh every day, and every day it takes longer and longer. The government (council?) has been doing roadworks to re-install the tram system, and various roads have been closed or massively bottlenecked for months.

Today it took about two hours for what was originally a 45-minute journey, not only because of tailbacks on the motorway, but also due to the extra 20 minutes we spent getting from the west end of Princes Street to the bus station in the east end (i.e. a small part of the city centre). The bus driver told another disgruntled passenger that the only times the road into and out of Edinburgh wasn’t completely chockers was 5am and after 8pm. That would mean I need to wake up at 4am and get home at 9pm. That is so not happening.

I just know that if I take the train instead, it’ll start getting cancelled on a regular basis because of snow or something. And it comes only once an hour. The current thought is to get multiple-journey tickets for both the train and bus, paying more for my travel but hedging my bets.

(Maybe we should move to a bigger town with better public transport options.)

Random thoughts I should probably keep to myself…

… but I like to share inappropriately.

Do adolescent cliques re-assert themselves now that we’ve found old classmates on Facebook?
We had the cool crew, the wild girls, the bookish ones… we’re all grown up now, but I wonder, if there was a giant school reunion that we all miraculously were in Singapore for, would the groups continue to segregate according to ‘coolness’ lines like they did back then? Some of the ‘wild’ girls I knew back then are happily-married mums now.

(I am really loving Facebook right now for letting me find my old junior college classmates. They are all really interesting people.)

Why can all my colleagues acquire, edit, publish, and market books so damn brilliantly but so few appear able to rinse their crockery before putting it in the dishwasher or change the bog roll in the toilet when the roll runs out?

“The H—”
I can type it, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to utter the word “Husband” anywhere near the word “Neil” just yet. He’s been The Boyfriend for so long that changing that description just seems too weird. It’s been almost three weeks already and I still can’t do it. There must be something in my subconscious that thinks if I address Neil as The Husband, I will shrivel up and die of old age.

Yesterday I was actually chatting with someone and said, “My boyf—I mean Neil,” and that was when I realised I’m a total freak.

Another identifying trait of mine is clumsiness beyond the bounds of reason
How many people do you know can slip and fall on their hands and knees while trying to avoid someone who has slipped and fallen? Granted, I was wearing shoes I tend to slip in, but we were like a comedy duo — the middle-aged chubster slipping and falling on his arse, and me going, “Whoa…”, undertaking the evasive manoeuvre of leaning right with the soles of my feet evading the pavement and my knees not evading the road.

And finally, the granddaddy of weird thoughts I frequently entertain:

Why are females so damned feminine?
I don’t give two shits about handbags or what’s “on-trend” (except to be amazed that women follow this stuff when the stylists and designers tend to wear the same damned things year after year because they know what suits them) or hair treatments or manicures or pedicures or wedding videos or wedding dresses or diets (I am on the classic See Food diet) or anything so many women I know or see on teevee seem really intent on. I’m like Christina Yang on Grey’s Anatomy except I’m not that ambitious.

It also drives me nuts to read about celebrity women who profess to be tomboys but are constantly in high heels and full make up. WTF?!

How could the insanity have started already

Isn’t it amazing how this happens:

People tend to accept my er, less than sociable or conventional ways and most have given up trying to change me.

Then I announce I’m getting married.

Suddenly everyone (well, not everyone, but a surprising number) wants me to have a wedding their way, which includes covering up my tattoos.

Most of these people have known me for long enough, and are well aware that I’m a contrary, stubborn little cow, especially when told what to do. So ‘cover up your tattoos’ is more likely to get me into a halter top than long sleeves — unless, of course, there is some clever reverse reverse psychology going on, where I might do what they want because it’s what they least expect.

I just wanted to write that nonsense down because it amuses me.

Not so Famous

Think I’ve lost the enthusiasm for The (new) Famous Five now I’ve found out they’re going to be a fucking Disney fucking animated fucking series. Fuck.

The Famous Five is one of those things I hold very dear. My childhood was spent trying to invent adventures and intrigue in a not-very-exciting suburban neighbourhood. I wanted mysteries to uncover — the closest I got was discovering a fully-operational brothel across the street, and it wasn’t detective work that revealed this decidedly scandalous information, our housekeeper told us about it (the brothel owners told her to keep quiet about it and there wouldn’t be any trouble).

So I’m pretty annoyed that this classic series is being dumbed-down (given the series is for children, I’m even more concerned) for the current generation. Surely there’s some irony in a television series trying to encourage kids to go outside.

I’ve put a couple of Famous Five collections on my wishlist. I gave the kids (other kids) a Secret Seven collection not so long ago, maybe I’ll be able to find these Famous Five ones at Asda, too.

Reasons I’m going batshit insane, #3

As the saying goes, You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family. Neil has been exceedingly (and now, increasingly) aggrieved that he is now the only member of his family who doesn’t smoke.

His mother has been enjoying her freedom to smoke by smoking everywhere in the bloody house since we’ve moved over the road. Which is not great for things like my yarn that still lives there. I guess I’m Febreze-ing everything when we’ve finally got storage for them.

His sister also smokes heavily, and when she’s not mad at Neil she smokes only up in her room and on the porch. Most unfortunately, as non- and former smokers know, it doesn’t matter if the door’s shut — the smoke still gets everywhere. Neil was heard muttering, “What’s the point of having a shower when I’m surrounded by smoke the moment I step out of the bathroom?” this morning.

(Point to note: his sister had agreed to stop smoking once the house started being renovated. Clearly, her definition of ‘house’ does not include the kitchen or any bedroom. And, I suspect, the bathroom or either living room. Or the hall. One might feel Neil’s pain, but one should also note that Neil knows very well that his mother and sister forget things they’ve agreed to if it doesn’t suit them.)

Neil, you know you’re one of the most important people in my life and I love you to bits, but HONEY, it’s not like they’ve ever seriously contemplated quitting the habit. You may really want them to, for a less stinky house and their (and our) general health, but, as you’ve pointed out kajillions of times, if you ever try to tell them something, they do the exact opposite just to piss you off. You were absolutely determined to move into this house, with your sister who smokes. Things are going to smell like smoke.

Unless, of course, there are ways we can minimise the impact of a smoker in the house. I’ve thought of draught-proofing her room (sure to cause a fight and huffy living-room smoking) and installing an exhaust fan upstairs (sadly impractical). We’ve got one of those water-based air purifiers — maybe I can turn it on when I get up in the morning (nothing sexier than a lady who has a lit cigarette hangin’ outta her gob while she’s getting ready for work) to minimise the levels of Neil-grumbles.

I’m looking for more ideas. Ideas must be subtle enough to avoid fights with someone who behaves as though she’s pre-menstrual all year round, but effective at soaking up smoky smells. I suspect the air purifier is the only way, but I’m happy to stand corrected.

Reasons I’m going batshit insane, #2

I’ve got a new entry for Wikipedia in logical fallacies. I’m calling it makio shit uppum. It almost always occurs when someone is losing an argument. Here’s how it works:

Scenario 1. Invent examples of highly negative character traits you attribute to your opponent. For example, “The floor is 90 years old and rotting. It will collapse if we do not replace it.” “You only know how to spend money. You want to replace the floor because you’re moving in,” Even better, do that to your opponent’s significant other / spouse. When they aren’t present. For example, “—— doesn’t talk much. She is ignorant.”

Scenario 2. Only respond to what you think your opponent should be saying, not what they are actually saying. For example, “You are so ignorant for saying that about me in front of ——!” “The little dig I made was at ——, what does what his son said have to do with you?” “You should be ashamed of your behaviour towards me in front of ——!”

I notice that “being ignorant” is frequently used as a general-purpose insult here in Central Scotland. Which, frankly, tells me how ignorant those tossing the insult around truly are.

Reasons I’m going batshit insane, #1

“I’d really love to help you guys paint, since you helped me decorate my room [ed: months ago, with not one finger lifted to help since then]… I’ve got work to do for this promotion board… [insert information about promotion opportunities here]… I’ll be doing this all afternoon.”

I walk into the living room soon after to find her hard at work, learning the intricate plot details of Serenity that will surely score points at the promotion board (comprehension of science fiction principles — an important skill in the civil service). A couple of hours later, Neil walks into the living room to find her hard at work, studying the insides of her eyelids.

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