17:30 pm offsetting the hours over the weekend against the ½ hour less than 7.5 that I’ve WORKED today.
The Test Manager Forum slot on the 29th next week came back, but I’m not on leave next week any more. I emailed Mr Boss, and copied Mr Head-of-Testing-Commnity with a request that I should be allowed to go, and got the following in response:
“if you remember, the reason you ~need to be in the office?~ is that J, P, N and A are all out. We will also be having a push to get UAT 2 into place. So I’m going to have to say no”. No “sorry, Jean, I really need you in the office”, no “regretfully”, no “perhaps you could come in on Wed morning”. Just a flat ?pissed off? No.
He managed NOT to copy Mr HoTC on his response, which is what really Teed me off.
All those extra hours, all those long days, all that Saturday morning when I’d also given up my holiday for the day before, all for jack. Not that I actually expected much, just a bit of social oil to sweeten the abuse.
I’m done for today. I’m done doing extra time for a while. Will probably be back to ludicrous hours tomorrow, but then again, perhaps not
Monday 20 October 2008
Birthday 2008
Still blissed from my fantastic birthday weekend. It was unforgettable, and I want to make sure it doesn't disappear into that land where you only remember if you are drunk, or maudlin, or both. So many people called, texted, mailed, memoed, posted - and I was especially happy to be able to see some of my friends in person on the day, all of which has made this years birthday event exceptional.
Prequel
“What are you doing on October 11th”, said Mark. I so nearly said "that's the day before my birthday", but decided I should leave it. Ummmmm, errrrrrr, “Nothing”.
"Oh good", he said, "do you fancy going to a Piaf tribute concert". Would I? What a perfect birthday treat, I thought, but still didn't tell him it was my birthday weekend, or how pleased I was he had invited me.
"I think we should go dressed up, 40's 50's style. Well, the way we usually dress", he said. *Laughing*. The opportunity to dress up, to be escorted by someone properly gallant, attractive and attentive. What was to resist? I started planning my outfit: simple really, the red hat with the wee veil I wore on our first proper arranged ‘date’; which was only about a year after I’d met him though we’d mysteriously managed to bump into each other here and there. Poor hat hadn’t had an airing since then either.
That was weeks before. Between then and my birthday, we managed to slide in a birthday visit (his) to the theatre to see the 39 Steps (WELL worth going to see) and a properly high-living corporate hospitality rugby match at Twickenham where the London Irish beat the Harlequins and I shouted in a most unladylike fashion during the game. Life has been damn good to me lately.
So, the birthday weekend.
For reasons that seemed eminently sensible at the time, regardless of the fact that I work lunatic hours every day during the week, I had decided to show willing and stay over to work (unpaid) overtime on Saturday morning. Mostly because it seemed rather unfair that my team should be pressured directly by my boss to work the weekend (I refuse to browbeat them, even if I did make sure they would get PAID overtime) Even though I could have done with getting home and having the day to get my act together.
It felt pleasantly strange to wake and know that this was going to be a half-day, with a great evening ahead. I had all sorts of plans to sort out emails and reports and etc since I haven’t a dicky what the system actually looks like or how to test it. Unfortunately, my boss decided to treat it as a normal working day with additional opportunity to pester the hell out of me. I had planned to leave at one: which was right about the time he wanted updates, snapshots and explanations for everything he doesn’t understand about how and why we do things. I stitched him to buy everyone lunch, with strict instruction that pizza was NOT to be on the menu. The guy in my team who had demanded such, then decided he was going out of the office to get lunch sigh
Shortly after the time I had planned to leave, Mr Boss came back again, and I managed to find the proper tone of voice to tell him, “GO. AWAY.” And he did. I didn’t though, not till just after 2pm. Earlier, I’d been counting out loud the 90 minutes to get home, the 90 minutes to get to Mark’s in time to get to Westminster Cathedral for 6:45. Which wasn’t leaving much time to do anything much except throw clothes into a bag and MOVE! Cursing myself for a wasted morning dealing with my boss’s angst instead of getting on with some work. Hang on, there’s something wrong with that statement.
That red devil is such a joy to drive. I’d decided against putting the top down – would take too long - like about 30 seconds. Listening to good choons, enjoying the sunshine, feeling myself relax and let the stress go.
Traffic was OK, the red devil eats open road, and I decided I had time to fill the tank ready for the expected drive on Monday when I’d be tired and wouldn’t have time. Picked up a call from Mark, manfully resisting the panic that I’d be late as I so often am, and showing him up in front of his friends who had organised the concert. He managed to keep a nonchalant tone while he asked if I was still in Birmingham, and the relief was palpable when I said I was in Aylesbury and planning to get the 4:30 train. Only then did I realise I’d been kidding myself by blanking the fact the 6:45 was the time the doors opened, not the time the concert started. Sometimes my subconscious does me proud.
Knowing what I wanted to wear, and where it was helped a LOT, and I decided to stay in the jeans and flats I was wearing so I didn’t have to spend time getting glammed till I got to London.
Almost ready at 4, I called Paul to see if he could give me a lift to the station. He was out test-driving the car, which has been misbehaving a lot lately. OK, call a cab at 4:15; beginning to fret that they’d be late, go to the wrong side of the square, take a longer route than necessary to get to the station: fret fret fret.
Taxi arrived; I did the demanding princess bit and made him take the shortest route, which he didn’t recognise at all! So, arrive at the station, pay the driver, not dare look at the board with train times while cursing the machine for taking so long; check the time, no problem, 4:27 – check the board. Next train is to Princes Risborough it said, and the next train to Marylebone at 5. HELL! There is a train at the platform; there isn’t a single uniformed station person in sight (he was hiding in an office thing). Check with the man, “will this train get me a connection to London?” It’s going to London, he said. I didn’t believe him, but got on the train anyway. The LED thing was broken so I couldn’t tell if it was really going to London or not. The train moved off. Fortunately, the driver enjoyed using the in-train tannoy so I heard that it was all going to be OK on the getting straight to London front.
So, there I am, on the train, all sorted, time to apply slap, de-stress and start enjoying myself again.
The phone rings, it’s Mark with an accusing voice, “you don’t sound like you’re on a train”. Slight change of plan, he tells me, he forgot England was playing so he’ll meet me in the pub. “But I’m not wearing proper clothes”, I wail. Dickering about on I should get the cab to the pub and he’ll give me keys to the flat won’t work: it means I will arrive in jeans and flats with a bag of clothes and steal my own thunder by not arriving all elegance and pizzazz. A woman walked into the ladies toilets at Marylebone and an overdressed demimondaine walked out about ten minutes later.
The taxi driver did a double take, but at least I remembered not only the name, but also the address of the pub, and he knew where it was. England scored their first goal just as we passed Victoria. Minutes later, I am doing the soignée exit from the cab, bless black cabs for the grab rail things that allow one to alight rather than clamber.
The pub is packed with mostly blokes watching the match. There are a few startled glances, you could see them thinking, and “she must be lost”. I do my standard head for the bar then you don’t look such a fool for not seeing whomever you are meant to meet. (He was hiding behind a pillar). Trying to order a drink started the evening as it was meant to, and did, go on. “He’s already got you one,” said the barman, automatically looking to where Mark was sitting, looking spiffing, or is that spivving, in the natty pinstripe suit.
G&T is a new adventure for me, I never liked gin till I was presented with one earlier this year and didn’t have the heart to tell the (turned out to be a bitch) colleague that I didn’t drink the stuff. I drink it now J
Outside, finishing the drinks he asked me, “Can you dance in these shoes? “ Given that I can just about walk in them, and not far, I cautiously asked what kind of dancing. Holding onto each other and swaying a bit he said, telling me he had “impetuously” volunteered for us to get up on stage and dance during the performance. Always cool, I didn’t demur, well, not much.
We were the business walking to the Cathedral Hall, me with my hand on his arm (mostly to keep my balance on the uneven pavements). Looking and feeling totally amazing, and collecting compliments all the way.
On arrival, in better than on good time: just as they opened the doors in fact, we headed straight for the bar and collected more compliments and couple of glasses of wine from his friends who were looking pretty damn fine themselves and discovered we had seats reserved for us right at the front. Getting the eye from almost everyone around, countless people noting and remarking on how wonderful we looked. And we loved every second of it.
We were talking to some new age type chap outside, who turned out to be a professional poet, and who had seen Piaf, or Lynn Holland, live. He didn’t look old enough to have seen Piaf, so it must have been this lady.
The concert itself; Lynn Holland and her sister sang "Amazing Grace", the first time they had performed in public together. I had a wistful hope they might sing "Sister" from The Colour Purple: thinking about my sister and missing her.
Toward the end of the concert, Lynn Holland, still on stage and being wonderfully professional, said that there was someone special in the audience, whose birthday it is. Me sitting, enjoying, imagining it is her sister, or the organiser, or someone she has known for a long time. Then she says, and it's Fox. ME! ffs! Then she comes over with the microphone and wishes me Happy Birthday, asks if it's really my birthday today. I say it's tomorrow, but tonight is my birthday present. I mean it.
Then she begins to sing "Bon Anniversaire a toi”, and gets almost 300 assembled people who paid to get in there to sing Happy Birthday to me. I was completely, utterly blown away: himself sat there grinning from continent to continent; really pleased that he'd managed the grand romantic gesture and that I hadn't suspected anything at all. Perhaps more triumphant about it because I was so overcome that my super cool confident façade visibly dissolved in the unexpected tears I had to wipe away.
No one has ever done anything so completely amazing for me before. What a wonderful thing to arrange. I discovered later that he’d wheedled a promise that she would do ‘something’ to wish me happy birthday from the stage, but even he wasn’t expecting the massed choir business. What a lucky, lucky, person I am.
As if the concert and birthday song surprise weren't enough, about 1 second after midnight I was presented with a mysterious package wrapped in lush shiny red paper: a Piaf CD and a collection of great sounds that "he can imagine me listening to while cruising around in the little red devil".
And it didn’t end there.
I got up the next morning at 8 – this working lark plays havoc with lie-ins - decided that was a bit extreme since I’d not got to sleep till almost 5am; and went back to bed. Then it was somehow ten o’clock and I was wide-awake. Cup of coffee, book, and open the cards I’d brought with me. Including one from my team at work. The one my mother sent was superb, a 3D Japanese lady; handmade of course. Later, when Mark disbelieved me, as he did last year, when I said my mother had made my card, I said that it would probably have a stamp on the back saying ‘Handmade by Helen’. He looked, and it didn’t; it had a handwritten ‘made by Mum’.
I sent a text about the massed choir to everyone I could think of that would be happy for me, except those I was going to see later, and had lots of lovely texts back. Cosmic first of course. He didn’t go to the states but had gone someplace else and still couldn’t come to my birthday lunch L
Sid called to say he was at Aylesbury station but the trains weren’t running. Big deal, Sid getting on a train, he said later it was the first time in about sixteen years, and he asked the station staff if the smoking carriage was still at the front. I convinced him we would be at the restaurant all afternoon and that ‘late’ wasn’t a problem. Considered getting Paul and Dee to give him a lift but we thought he’d probably have left by then.
Got a call from my sister and was on the phone for ages, telling her alllllllllllll about last night, making plans for our mother’s birthday, talking about our brothers, nieces and nephews, her man. At one point, when I put the kettle on again, there was a disbelieving background call “was that the clink of a bottle?!?”
Mark’s friends had had too good a night of it after we’d left them in the pub, and bailed on joining us. Big shame as they are lovely people and I’d have liked for them to be there.
Back to the uber-elegant outfits to get a taxi to the restaurant. Probably because I was wearing the FM red heeled platform (understated of course!) heels, we had to walk to the station before we got a cab, then waited while the driver and his mate discussed whether or not Shaftesbury Avenue was closed to traffic: some march of other. We refused to care. We got lots of startled and admiring glances from the people we passed and lots of compliments from the cabbie, about Mark mostly, but men hardly ever bother to dress ‘up’, and they probably thought I was some kind of hooker. After all, people don’t wear heels, seams and hats on a Sunday, do they?
Sarah sends a text to say Steve has been called out and she has a migraine, and we are all, variously, truly disappointed.
Traffic was awful. However, I know exactly where the restaurant is, provided you get me to Picadilly/Wardour Street, and ‘the knowledge’ would strain to know every new restaurant that opens. I must have spotted it the day it opened, as it had only been open for about three weeks.
Paul called at about 12:30 – from the house, running late and wanting to know if I knew where his shirt might be: I suggested the usual places but he’d already looked there. Another late arrival, but I was so very glad he and Dee had farmed out the short people and wanted to join me (but sad I didn’t get to see them ON my birthday)
Paula called at about five past one, and I was, amazingly, able to say we were about five hundred yards away but would probably take fifteen minutes to get there.
Lunch was really good, and extended way into the afternoon, and probably early evening. Spending a leisurely, sunny Sunday afternoon having lunch with some of my most favourite people was a rare treat. Nigel and Lynn turned up, I really wasn't expecting them to make it, Lynn had shifted her shift to be able to do it, and was going back to work afterwards - in Essex. These people had travelled from sticks to centre on a day when trains weren't running properly, traffic was awful and parking was bloody expensive, I felt so loved. We had cosmopolitans, raspberry martinis, margueritas, beers, wine, wine and more wine to wash down the leisurely lunch, wandering outside in the sunshine for a cigarette, a chat, having the restaurateur saunter out to join us, telling us the best way to identify a Saffer accent is to ask them to say something like "give me some ice".
Add a plethora of hats: the one I was wearing when I got there and the two toppers Paula gave me: one that begs for a good corset & heels night, the other a completely OTT white topper with yards of veiling. I wore them all, but not all at the same time. Sling in a pair of screaming red silver-heeled shoes, which had to be worn, of course. The table had so many boxes, bags and cards it was a struggle to find space to put the food. Paula insisted she doesn't really think I'm a prostitute and that the card playing "Pretty Woman" reminds her of me for some other reason.
Include a call from my brother Michael; typically laid back but always in my corner, ending with “Well, I’ll call you again next year”. *Smothered laughter
Eventually it was decided that Paul would give Sid a lift back to Aylesbury, Paula and Rod wafted off someplace, things were getting a little fuzzy by then, so Paul chauffeured us all to Gods Waiting Room where they decided to stay on with us. We sat outside on a perfect evening, chatting and smoking, wandering inside now and then to watch or play poker. Mark took a lot of stick about his “son-in-law”, especially when he invited him to join their game and lost to him.
After a while, I realised I'd lost my Lea Stein red fox. There was the signature pin, firmly attached to the lapel of my jacket, and no fox. I was SO distraught! My attempts to be cool about it were pretty feeble, and completely wiped out by my acting like a hyperactive kid at Christmas who just got a bike AND money when I found it on the pavement where the fox had leapt when it parted company from the brooch pin.
How marvellous.
The Aylesbury crew left after a while, and we found ourselves locked in with a bunch of nice people, a pack of cards, a big green table, little round plastic discs and a LOT of booze. There aren’t many places where the staff brings you yummy chocolates in the early hours.
I was definitely fading by the early hours of the morning: felt guilty that I’d stopped him playing poker, though he assured me he’d had enough anyway. He did split his winnings with the other guy who was still in before we left though. Another time I’ll remind him to take a spare set of keys so I can slope off instead of curtailing his night.
My fingers are sore with typing, 3000+ words and I still haven’t written it all down. There’s Monday still to go, and the Presidential Suite, but I’ll leave those for another day
Time for bed and blissful dreams, I’m working from home tomorrow and intending to offset the time I’ve spend doing bits and pieces this weekend.
Life is better than good.
Prequel
“What are you doing on October 11th”, said Mark. I so nearly said "that's the day before my birthday", but decided I should leave it. Ummmmm, errrrrrr, “Nothing”.
"Oh good", he said, "do you fancy going to a Piaf tribute concert". Would I? What a perfect birthday treat, I thought, but still didn't tell him it was my birthday weekend, or how pleased I was he had invited me.
"I think we should go dressed up, 40's 50's style. Well, the way we usually dress", he said. *Laughing*. The opportunity to dress up, to be escorted by someone properly gallant, attractive and attentive. What was to resist? I started planning my outfit: simple really, the red hat with the wee veil I wore on our first proper arranged ‘date’; which was only about a year after I’d met him though we’d mysteriously managed to bump into each other here and there. Poor hat hadn’t had an airing since then either.
That was weeks before. Between then and my birthday, we managed to slide in a birthday visit (his) to the theatre to see the 39 Steps (WELL worth going to see) and a properly high-living corporate hospitality rugby match at Twickenham where the London Irish beat the Harlequins and I shouted in a most unladylike fashion during the game. Life has been damn good to me lately.
So, the birthday weekend.
For reasons that seemed eminently sensible at the time, regardless of the fact that I work lunatic hours every day during the week, I had decided to show willing and stay over to work (unpaid) overtime on Saturday morning. Mostly because it seemed rather unfair that my team should be pressured directly by my boss to work the weekend (I refuse to browbeat them, even if I did make sure they would get PAID overtime) Even though I could have done with getting home and having the day to get my act together.
It felt pleasantly strange to wake and know that this was going to be a half-day, with a great evening ahead. I had all sorts of plans to sort out emails and reports and etc since I haven’t a dicky what the system actually looks like or how to test it. Unfortunately, my boss decided to treat it as a normal working day with additional opportunity to pester the hell out of me. I had planned to leave at one: which was right about the time he wanted updates, snapshots and explanations for everything he doesn’t understand about how and why we do things. I stitched him to buy everyone lunch, with strict instruction that pizza was NOT to be on the menu. The guy in my team who had demanded such, then decided he was going out of the office to get lunch sigh
Shortly after the time I had planned to leave, Mr Boss came back again, and I managed to find the proper tone of voice to tell him, “GO. AWAY.” And he did. I didn’t though, not till just after 2pm. Earlier, I’d been counting out loud the 90 minutes to get home, the 90 minutes to get to Mark’s in time to get to Westminster Cathedral for 6:45. Which wasn’t leaving much time to do anything much except throw clothes into a bag and MOVE! Cursing myself for a wasted morning dealing with my boss’s angst instead of getting on with some work. Hang on, there’s something wrong with that statement.
That red devil is such a joy to drive. I’d decided against putting the top down – would take too long - like about 30 seconds. Listening to good choons, enjoying the sunshine, feeling myself relax and let the stress go.
Traffic was OK, the red devil eats open road, and I decided I had time to fill the tank ready for the expected drive on Monday when I’d be tired and wouldn’t have time. Picked up a call from Mark, manfully resisting the panic that I’d be late as I so often am, and showing him up in front of his friends who had organised the concert. He managed to keep a nonchalant tone while he asked if I was still in Birmingham, and the relief was palpable when I said I was in Aylesbury and planning to get the 4:30 train. Only then did I realise I’d been kidding myself by blanking the fact the 6:45 was the time the doors opened, not the time the concert started. Sometimes my subconscious does me proud.
Knowing what I wanted to wear, and where it was helped a LOT, and I decided to stay in the jeans and flats I was wearing so I didn’t have to spend time getting glammed till I got to London.
Almost ready at 4, I called Paul to see if he could give me a lift to the station. He was out test-driving the car, which has been misbehaving a lot lately. OK, call a cab at 4:15; beginning to fret that they’d be late, go to the wrong side of the square, take a longer route than necessary to get to the station: fret fret fret.
Taxi arrived; I did the demanding princess bit and made him take the shortest route, which he didn’t recognise at all! So, arrive at the station, pay the driver, not dare look at the board with train times while cursing the machine for taking so long; check the time, no problem, 4:27 – check the board. Next train is to Princes Risborough it said, and the next train to Marylebone at 5. HELL! There is a train at the platform; there isn’t a single uniformed station person in sight (he was hiding in an office thing). Check with the man, “will this train get me a connection to London?” It’s going to London, he said. I didn’t believe him, but got on the train anyway. The LED thing was broken so I couldn’t tell if it was really going to London or not. The train moved off. Fortunately, the driver enjoyed using the in-train tannoy so I heard that it was all going to be OK on the getting straight to London front.
So, there I am, on the train, all sorted, time to apply slap, de-stress and start enjoying myself again.
The phone rings, it’s Mark with an accusing voice, “you don’t sound like you’re on a train”. Slight change of plan, he tells me, he forgot England was playing so he’ll meet me in the pub. “But I’m not wearing proper clothes”, I wail. Dickering about on I should get the cab to the pub and he’ll give me keys to the flat won’t work: it means I will arrive in jeans and flats with a bag of clothes and steal my own thunder by not arriving all elegance and pizzazz. A woman walked into the ladies toilets at Marylebone and an overdressed demimondaine walked out about ten minutes later.
The taxi driver did a double take, but at least I remembered not only the name, but also the address of the pub, and he knew where it was. England scored their first goal just as we passed Victoria. Minutes later, I am doing the soignée exit from the cab, bless black cabs for the grab rail things that allow one to alight rather than clamber.
The pub is packed with mostly blokes watching the match. There are a few startled glances, you could see them thinking, and “she must be lost”. I do my standard head for the bar then you don’t look such a fool for not seeing whomever you are meant to meet. (He was hiding behind a pillar). Trying to order a drink started the evening as it was meant to, and did, go on. “He’s already got you one,” said the barman, automatically looking to where Mark was sitting, looking spiffing, or is that spivving, in the natty pinstripe suit.
G&T is a new adventure for me, I never liked gin till I was presented with one earlier this year and didn’t have the heart to tell the (turned out to be a bitch) colleague that I didn’t drink the stuff. I drink it now J
Outside, finishing the drinks he asked me, “Can you dance in these shoes? “ Given that I can just about walk in them, and not far, I cautiously asked what kind of dancing. Holding onto each other and swaying a bit he said, telling me he had “impetuously” volunteered for us to get up on stage and dance during the performance. Always cool, I didn’t demur, well, not much.
We were the business walking to the Cathedral Hall, me with my hand on his arm (mostly to keep my balance on the uneven pavements). Looking and feeling totally amazing, and collecting compliments all the way.
On arrival, in better than on good time: just as they opened the doors in fact, we headed straight for the bar and collected more compliments and couple of glasses of wine from his friends who were looking pretty damn fine themselves and discovered we had seats reserved for us right at the front. Getting the eye from almost everyone around, countless people noting and remarking on how wonderful we looked. And we loved every second of it.
We were talking to some new age type chap outside, who turned out to be a professional poet, and who had seen Piaf, or Lynn Holland, live. He didn’t look old enough to have seen Piaf, so it must have been this lady.
The concert itself; Lynn Holland and her sister sang "Amazing Grace", the first time they had performed in public together. I had a wistful hope they might sing "Sister" from The Colour Purple: thinking about my sister and missing her.
Toward the end of the concert, Lynn Holland, still on stage and being wonderfully professional, said that there was someone special in the audience, whose birthday it is. Me sitting, enjoying, imagining it is her sister, or the organiser, or someone she has known for a long time. Then she says, and it's Fox. ME! ffs! Then she comes over with the microphone and wishes me Happy Birthday, asks if it's really my birthday today. I say it's tomorrow, but tonight is my birthday present. I mean it.
Then she begins to sing "Bon Anniversaire a toi”, and gets almost 300 assembled people who paid to get in there to sing Happy Birthday to me. I was completely, utterly blown away: himself sat there grinning from continent to continent; really pleased that he'd managed the grand romantic gesture and that I hadn't suspected anything at all. Perhaps more triumphant about it because I was so overcome that my super cool confident façade visibly dissolved in the unexpected tears I had to wipe away.
No one has ever done anything so completely amazing for me before. What a wonderful thing to arrange. I discovered later that he’d wheedled a promise that she would do ‘something’ to wish me happy birthday from the stage, but even he wasn’t expecting the massed choir business. What a lucky, lucky, person I am.
As if the concert and birthday song surprise weren't enough, about 1 second after midnight I was presented with a mysterious package wrapped in lush shiny red paper: a Piaf CD and a collection of great sounds that "he can imagine me listening to while cruising around in the little red devil".
And it didn’t end there.
I got up the next morning at 8 – this working lark plays havoc with lie-ins - decided that was a bit extreme since I’d not got to sleep till almost 5am; and went back to bed. Then it was somehow ten o’clock and I was wide-awake. Cup of coffee, book, and open the cards I’d brought with me. Including one from my team at work. The one my mother sent was superb, a 3D Japanese lady; handmade of course. Later, when Mark disbelieved me, as he did last year, when I said my mother had made my card, I said that it would probably have a stamp on the back saying ‘Handmade by Helen’. He looked, and it didn’t; it had a handwritten ‘made by Mum’.
I sent a text about the massed choir to everyone I could think of that would be happy for me, except those I was going to see later, and had lots of lovely texts back. Cosmic first of course. He didn’t go to the states but had gone someplace else and still couldn’t come to my birthday lunch L
Sid called to say he was at Aylesbury station but the trains weren’t running. Big deal, Sid getting on a train, he said later it was the first time in about sixteen years, and he asked the station staff if the smoking carriage was still at the front. I convinced him we would be at the restaurant all afternoon and that ‘late’ wasn’t a problem. Considered getting Paul and Dee to give him a lift but we thought he’d probably have left by then.
Got a call from my sister and was on the phone for ages, telling her alllllllllllll about last night, making plans for our mother’s birthday, talking about our brothers, nieces and nephews, her man. At one point, when I put the kettle on again, there was a disbelieving background call “was that the clink of a bottle?!?”
Mark’s friends had had too good a night of it after we’d left them in the pub, and bailed on joining us. Big shame as they are lovely people and I’d have liked for them to be there.
Back to the uber-elegant outfits to get a taxi to the restaurant. Probably because I was wearing the FM red heeled platform (understated of course!) heels, we had to walk to the station before we got a cab, then waited while the driver and his mate discussed whether or not Shaftesbury Avenue was closed to traffic: some march of other. We refused to care. We got lots of startled and admiring glances from the people we passed and lots of compliments from the cabbie, about Mark mostly, but men hardly ever bother to dress ‘up’, and they probably thought I was some kind of hooker. After all, people don’t wear heels, seams and hats on a Sunday, do they?
Sarah sends a text to say Steve has been called out and she has a migraine, and we are all, variously, truly disappointed.
Traffic was awful. However, I know exactly where the restaurant is, provided you get me to Picadilly/Wardour Street, and ‘the knowledge’ would strain to know every new restaurant that opens. I must have spotted it the day it opened, as it had only been open for about three weeks.
Paul called at about 12:30 – from the house, running late and wanting to know if I knew where his shirt might be: I suggested the usual places but he’d already looked there. Another late arrival, but I was so very glad he and Dee had farmed out the short people and wanted to join me (but sad I didn’t get to see them ON my birthday)
Paula called at about five past one, and I was, amazingly, able to say we were about five hundred yards away but would probably take fifteen minutes to get there.
Lunch was really good, and extended way into the afternoon, and probably early evening. Spending a leisurely, sunny Sunday afternoon having lunch with some of my most favourite people was a rare treat. Nigel and Lynn turned up, I really wasn't expecting them to make it, Lynn had shifted her shift to be able to do it, and was going back to work afterwards - in Essex. These people had travelled from sticks to centre on a day when trains weren't running properly, traffic was awful and parking was bloody expensive, I felt so loved. We had cosmopolitans, raspberry martinis, margueritas, beers, wine, wine and more wine to wash down the leisurely lunch, wandering outside in the sunshine for a cigarette, a chat, having the restaurateur saunter out to join us, telling us the best way to identify a Saffer accent is to ask them to say something like "give me some ice".
Add a plethora of hats: the one I was wearing when I got there and the two toppers Paula gave me: one that begs for a good corset & heels night, the other a completely OTT white topper with yards of veiling. I wore them all, but not all at the same time. Sling in a pair of screaming red silver-heeled shoes, which had to be worn, of course. The table had so many boxes, bags and cards it was a struggle to find space to put the food. Paula insisted she doesn't really think I'm a prostitute and that the card playing "Pretty Woman" reminds her of me for some other reason.
Include a call from my brother Michael; typically laid back but always in my corner, ending with “Well, I’ll call you again next year”. *Smothered laughter
Eventually it was decided that Paul would give Sid a lift back to Aylesbury, Paula and Rod wafted off someplace, things were getting a little fuzzy by then, so Paul chauffeured us all to Gods Waiting Room where they decided to stay on with us. We sat outside on a perfect evening, chatting and smoking, wandering inside now and then to watch or play poker. Mark took a lot of stick about his “son-in-law”, especially when he invited him to join their game and lost to him.
After a while, I realised I'd lost my Lea Stein red fox. There was the signature pin, firmly attached to the lapel of my jacket, and no fox. I was SO distraught! My attempts to be cool about it were pretty feeble, and completely wiped out by my acting like a hyperactive kid at Christmas who just got a bike AND money when I found it on the pavement where the fox had leapt when it parted company from the brooch pin.
How marvellous.
The Aylesbury crew left after a while, and we found ourselves locked in with a bunch of nice people, a pack of cards, a big green table, little round plastic discs and a LOT of booze. There aren’t many places where the staff brings you yummy chocolates in the early hours.
I was definitely fading by the early hours of the morning: felt guilty that I’d stopped him playing poker, though he assured me he’d had enough anyway. He did split his winnings with the other guy who was still in before we left though. Another time I’ll remind him to take a spare set of keys so I can slope off instead of curtailing his night.
My fingers are sore with typing, 3000+ words and I still haven’t written it all down. There’s Monday still to go, and the Presidential Suite, but I’ll leave those for another day
Time for bed and blissful dreams, I’m working from home tomorrow and intending to offset the time I’ve spend doing bits and pieces this weekend.
Life is better than good.
Monday 6 October 2008
'murcan 'musement
To the citizens of the United States of America from Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II In light of your failure in recent years to nominate competent candidates for President of the USA and thus to govern yourselves, we hereby give notice of the revocation of your independence, effective immediately. (You should look up 'revocation' in the Oxford English Dictionary.)
Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Kansas, which she does not fancy).
Your new Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a Governor for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.
To aid in the transition to a British Crown dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:
1. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'colour,' 'favour,' 'labour' and 'neighbour.' Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix '-ize' will be replaced by the suffix '-ise.' Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. (look up 'vocabulary').
2. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like' and 'you know' is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. There is no such thing as U.S. English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take into account the reinstated letter 'u" and the elimination of '-ize.'
3. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.
4. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not quite ready to be independent. Guns should only be used for shooting grouse. If you can't sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist,then you're not ready to shoot grouse.
5. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler. Although a permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.
6. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left side with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.
7. The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) of roughly $10/US gallon. Get used to it.
8.You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.
9. The cold, tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. South African beer is also acceptable, as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer. They are also part of the British Commonwealth - see what it did for them. American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.
10. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters. Watching Andie Macdowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.
11. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies).
12. Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America. Since only 2.1% of you are aware there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the South Africans first to take the sting out of their deliveries.
13. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.
14. An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).
15. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 p.m. with proper cups, with saucers, and never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; plus strawberries (with cream) when in season.
God Save the Queen!
PS: Only share this with friends who have a good sense of humour (NOT humor)!
Cheers Chitra!
Her Sovereign Majesty Queen Elizabeth II will resume monarchical duties over all states, commonwealths, and territories (except Kansas, which she does not fancy).
Your new Prime Minister, Gordon Brown, will appoint a Governor for America without the need for further elections. Congress and the Senate will be disbanded. A questionnaire may be circulated next year to determine whether any of you noticed.
To aid in the transition to a British Crown dependency, the following rules are introduced with immediate effect:
1. The letter 'U' will be reinstated in words such as 'colour,' 'favour,' 'labour' and 'neighbour.' Likewise, you will learn to spell 'doughnut' without skipping half the letters, and the suffix '-ize' will be replaced by the suffix '-ise.' Generally, you will be expected to raise your vocabulary to acceptable levels. (look up 'vocabulary').
2. Using the same twenty-seven words interspersed with filler noises such as "like' and 'you know' is an unacceptable and inefficient form of communication. There is no such thing as U.S. English. We will let Microsoft know on your behalf. The Microsoft spell-checker will be adjusted to take into account the reinstated letter 'u" and the elimination of '-ize.'
3. July 4th will no longer be celebrated as a holiday.
4. You will learn to resolve personal issues without using guns, lawyers, or therapists. The fact that you need so many lawyers and therapists shows that you're not quite ready to be independent. Guns should only be used for shooting grouse. If you can't sort things out without suing someone or speaking to a therapist,then you're not ready to shoot grouse.
5. Therefore, you will no longer be allowed to own or carry anything more dangerous than a vegetable peeler. Although a permit will be required if you wish to carry a vegetable peeler in public.
6. All intersections will be replaced with roundabouts, and you will start driving on the left side with immediate effect. At the same time, you will go metric with immediate effect and without the benefit of conversion tables. Both roundabouts and metrication will help you understand the British sense of humour.
7. The former USA will adopt UK prices on petrol (which you have been calling gasoline) of roughly $10/US gallon. Get used to it.
8.You will learn to make real chips. Those things you call French fries are not real chips, and those things you insist on calling potato chips are properly called crisps. Real chips are thick cut, fried in animal fat, and dressed not with catsup but with vinegar.
9. The cold, tasteless stuff you insist on calling beer is not actually beer at all. Henceforth, only proper British Bitter will be referred to as beer, and European brews of known and accepted provenance will be referred to as Lager. South African beer is also acceptable, as they are pound for pound the greatest sporting nation on earth and it can only be due to the beer. They are also part of the British Commonwealth - see what it did for them. American brands will be referred to as Near-Frozen Gnat's Urine, so that all can be sold without risk of further confusion.
10. Hollywood will be required occasionally to cast English actors as good guys. Hollywood will also be required to cast English actors to play English characters. Watching Andie Macdowell attempt English dialogue in Four Weddings and a Funeral was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese grater.
11. You will cease playing American football. There is only one kind of proper football; you call it soccer. Those of you brave enough will, in time, be allowed to play rugby (which has some similarities to American football, but does not involve stopping for a rest every twenty seconds or wearing full kevlar body armour like a bunch of nancies).
12. Further, you will stop playing baseball. It is not reasonable to host an event called the World Series for a game which is not played outside of America. Since only 2.1% of you are aware there is a world beyond your borders, your error is understandable. You will learn cricket, and we will let you face the South Africans first to take the sting out of their deliveries.
13. You must tell us who killed JFK. It's been driving us mad.
14. An internal revenue agent (i.e. tax collector) from Her Majesty's Government will be with you shortly to ensure the acquisition of all monies due (backdated to 1776).
15. Daily Tea Time begins promptly at 4 p.m. with proper cups, with saucers, and never mugs, with high quality biscuits (cookies) and cakes; plus strawberries (with cream) when in season.
God Save the Queen!
PS: Only share this with friends who have a good sense of humour (NOT humor)!
Cheers Chitra!
Wednesday 1 October 2008
random
This weeks premier inn flavour is kinda cool! Arriving at silly o'clock last night, they sent me through to the (closed) restaurant who found me food and a bottle a da red.
Arriving at sillier o'clock tonight, they looked up yellow pages for a chinese that would deliver, schmoozed them to deliver to the hotel, demanded all sorts of cheeky stuff while they phoned the order through, then organised bringing it up to my room when it arrived.
Nope. I have no desire to change my allegiance to Premier Inns but this one is a million miles better than the one in central Brum, currently messed up by the bloody Conservative party conference. Vote Independent!
Going to see some 'real' people tomorrow night at the Brum munch: better than work anyway. My dev manager colleague asked me tonight how come I get out of going to endless Release2 planning meetings and I told him I think it's cos I'm a girl. He's thinking about having the op if it gets him out of those meetings.
Life in the fast lane. I need a rest.
Arriving at sillier o'clock tonight, they looked up yellow pages for a chinese that would deliver, schmoozed them to deliver to the hotel, demanded all sorts of cheeky stuff while they phoned the order through, then organised bringing it up to my room when it arrived.
Nope. I have no desire to change my allegiance to Premier Inns but this one is a million miles better than the one in central Brum, currently messed up by the bloody Conservative party conference. Vote Independent!
Going to see some 'real' people tomorrow night at the Brum munch: better than work anyway. My dev manager colleague asked me tonight how come I get out of going to endless Release2 planning meetings and I told him I think it's cos I'm a girl. He's thinking about having the op if it gets him out of those meetings.
Life in the fast lane. I need a rest.
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