...is that this can be marketed as a stress ball. Observe.
How can this not be a CAUSE of stress? IT'S DISGUSTING!
In a curiously compulsive way.
ETA: If you want one of these for yourself, they can apparently be acquired here. Googled with the impressively straightforward "stress balls gross". Thanks bumpycat!
Another angry customer - villainously angry, even - is petitioning the PM to make Parcelforce accountable to its customers. Now, I'm no great believer in the power of petitions, but I am very impressed that he's making the effort to pursue the bastards. I too am very angry, and I would really like to believe that it might be possible to change things through the power of Righteous Wrath.
Please, if you live in the UK, go and sign this. Even if through some miracle you haven't had the appalling experiences that so many Parcelforce customers victims have had. We're just asking for accountability - I'm sure you can agree that should be a given. But it's not, since Parcelforce - despite being a branch of Royal Mail Group - is "not a licensed operator" and so not accountable to Postcomm. Or, apparently, anyone.
Jemima is a sweet little thing, but the sweet is mixed with a liberal dash of crazy. That crazy has in the past led her to traumatise herself, and to leave me scarred (quite literally), but these days it seems to be making her utterly, pathetically, endearingly devoted to me.
Since we moved, she has hardly dared set foot outside. When we leave the doors to the garden open, she sits on the doorstep and looks out with big, round eyes at the strange new world out there. But she doesn't dare actually cross the threshold. Once or twice she has - very bravely - ventured out, but she keeps a close eye on the door, and if a person should make the tiniest move towards it, she shoots inside as fast as she can. (Running, on one occasion, straight into the glass door, bouncing off (ouch! forehead!), and circling back without slowing down.) Because clearly we are doing our damndest to trick her into going outside, so that we can lock her out and abandon her FOREVER.
Silly muppet.
This is, of course, the same cat who used to go stir crazy if locked inside for more than 12 hours; the same cat who occasionally disappeared for 24 hours or more at a stretch, causing extreme anxiety in housesitters. But that was before. Now, we've moved, and everything's different. Did I mentioned she traumatised herself, back in her yoof? Yes. The crazy is coming back to haunt her.
Anyway, so besides her sudden fear of the great outdoors, she's also developed an enormous crush on me. Bad things will happen if I am ever in a room without Jemima in it! Ever! So she follows me around, making tiny little birdlike noises, and once she's established what it is that I'm doing and how long I'm likely to be there, settling down to purr wherever she can make herself comfortable.
Like, you know. The handbasin.
Yes, I know she always did like the basin. But then, it was about finding a comfy spot to be alone in. Now, it's about protecting me while I brush my teeth. The second the toothpaste comes out, there she is. Purr, purr, purr. Curling up in a way you'd swear wasn't possible on a hard surface. Purrrrrrr.
Crazy.
London, being a large and diverse city that rather fancies itself, is frequently home to unique and surprising events. But this one takes the trifle.
Observe the list of attractions: "Late bar. Booming sound. Entasis. Jelly wrestling. Theory."
And, dear lord, performers in jelly costumes.
(Picture by Greta Ilieva, stolen from the festival website.)
Parcelforce.
Parcelforceparcelforceparcelforce.
*sob*
Edit: Mirabile dictu! Parcelforce has delivered to me, quite unexpectedly, the very same box that they still claim is sitting in their Coventry hub with "address problems" (since 30 April), and that they assured me they couldn't possibly do anything about without a query being raised by the US sender. Of course, they had previously lied to the USPS and told them the package was delivered on 1 May, so the sender was unable to raise a query. Oh what a tangled web they weave. Seriously, the delivery of this box in no way absolves them of their previous screw-ups - in fact it adds an interesting new layer of deceit and incompetence - but hey: I have my box. I don't have to take it all quite so personally any more.
In other news, apparently Parcelforce is "not a licensed postal operator" and hence doesn't fall under Postwatch's remit. How does that work? Parcelforce is the national carrier, inasmuch as they work hand-in-glove with Royal Mail and the Post Office, their websites and call centres are closely interlinked, and, well, when you post a package overseas using your country's national carrier, it gets handed over to Parcelforce on arrival in the UK. How can it not be a licensed operator? It seems we have the worst of both worlds: the inefficiency of a monopoly, with the lack of accountability of a private company.
I do love to see brainpower applied to making the world a better place. And what better way than through ice cream therapy?
1. Running at 8.30am is much nicer than running at 11.30am.
2. Except for the hordes of schoolboys.
3. Some of whom appear to think I'm quite fit. That's really funny, for any sense of the word "fit".
4. I have almost three weeks of almost free (as in, not subbing, mostly) time ahead of me.
5. I have A Lot of things I want to accomplish in these three weeks.
6. I'm off to a slow start.
7. I'm starting to wonder whether books like 7 Habits of Highly Annoying People might actually have something to teach me.
Sometimes I forget that the point of taking pictures is to actually remove them from camera and look at them.
In town on my birthday:
A flock of pigeons in Leicester Square. Sort of. They were actually folded leaflets promoting some or other Chinese festival. Very beautiful in that setting.
Alien landing in Wardour Street?
Jemima quite liked this basket of yarn stash. So much that she tipped it over for improved cave access.
Awwww. I don't know how I got this effect. No idea. (It was the camera, not Photoshop, and it wasn't on purpose.)
The great thing about moving 5 minutes down the road is that we're now 5 minutes closer to Osterley Park. Which means my 25 minute run can now take in a little bit of almost countryside.
Another evening Chez Scroob. Another bout of concentration interrupted by a ringing telephone. Repeatedly.
rrrrring...*
"Can you send me a test email? I'm not sure this alias is working."
rrrrring...
"How big is your mailing list?"
rrrrring...
"Maybe if this ringtone weren't so annoying, you wouldn't mind the interruptions."
rrrrring...
"Love me?"
rrrrring...
"I think I made the hot chocolate too weak."
rrrrring...
"You know, I really enjoy these silly conversations of ours you've been uploading."
"...Uploading?!"
"Er - writing! Writing! Er, crafting into finely honed internet humour! Er... Hey, don't blog that!"
_____
* Only instead of "rrrrrring", it's actually more like "bloopy-beepy-bloop!bloop!" But that's harder to type.
...from which we can deduce two things.
1. The world still turns, gravity is still operational, chocolate is still fattening and Parcelforce is still The Devil.
2. I am either premenstrual or getting a cold. Possibly both.
Meanwhile, in a part of the internet that I love very, very much, bad things are happening. Which is making trouble for the incredibly cool people who made this incredibly cool site, and is sullying the incredible coolness. (Not an awful lot. Just a bit. But still.) Which also makes me want to cry, a bit, although I am not personally involved in the spat. (Although I could be if I wanted to, and do have very strong opinions on the matter.)
I think I need to go and get me some hot chocolate and other adiposity enhancers. It's the only way.
Two things that aren't funny:
1. On-stage harassment
2. Esteemed Father being out of a job again, again
Meanwhile, how do you suppose one determines whether one is becoming a walking cliche? I ask completely hypothetically, while sipping my organic fairtrade decaf. And knitting a hemp blanket.
Okay, I'm totally kidding about the hemp blanket.
Conversation:
"I mean, what kind of person are you if you HAVEN'T done drugs?"
"Right! ...So what does that make me?"
"Well, have you gone out of your way to not take drugs?"
"No."
"That's okay then."
...
"No I totally DID go to a strip club! They took their clothes off and everything!"
Possibly not the kind of earnestly defensive protestation most men make to their wives...
Moving from a flat to a three-storey townhouse takes quite a bit of adjusting. Not least in learning that if you need to talk to your beloved, yelling from the top floor to the kitchen *might* not be the best way to carry on a conversation.
Fortunately, technology is on our side. We have installed a set of cordless phones, which function well as an internal communication device. Beloved was initially dead set on walkie talkies but has accepted these as a compromise. It helps that he'd long since formed the habit of texting me from bed to let me know that he'd woken up and wouldn't mind some attention.*
So every so often the peace of my study is disturbed by a ringing phone, as Beloved requires my urgent attention to matters of great consequence. This afternoon, for instance.
Ring ring.
[Completely absorbed in my very demanding brain work,** it takes me a second to surface, place a mental bookmark and find the receiver.]
"No I'm not cooking yet!" I say.***
"Isn't the rain great?" he says.
"Oh. Yes. It is."
"I just wanted to say that."
It was, though.
Note to Greg: actually, I don't think the magic is because I'm not out in the rain. I get a very similar pleasure from heavy rain even when I am out in it, at least sometimes. Don't you?
_____
* This was back in the flat. Distance from his bed to my desk: oh, maybe 5 or 6 metres?
** Researching pattern support for new yarns. What? Ravelry is totally work!
*** Luckily, there's a different ring to let me know when the call is coming from outside the house, and should be answered more politely.
Must watch video that reminds me to ask why we poor souls in exile STILL haven't seen the evidence of what happened to a certain porcelain bunny? Huh? Huh? YOU know who you are and what you've done.
Conversation:*
"So are you doing anything fun this weekend?"
"Actually, I am. Tomorrow I'm being interviewed for a knitting podcast (fame at last!) and on Monday I'm meeting some blogfriends who are visiting from the US. Wow, putting those together makes for a pretty geeky weekend."
"That makes you practically a Dalek, actually."
"See, now I feel cool again."
_____
* Which took place over email. Does that increase the geek factor or not? I think not. Email is way too commonplace to be geeky.
Which means "crappy week". (Well, it does now.) Nasty lingering cold. Rude customers. Too much work. Internet dramas. Parcelforce. Bitchfight over our tenancy deposit (we're not getting most of it). Eh.
In between all of which I kept thinking fascinating thoughts that I was positively desperate to commit to blog, all of which now escape me. Eh.
Hm. Seriously. There must be something...?
My dad's about to arrive with a couple of trees to stick in the ground for us. Well, that was the idea, but as it's now pissing down I rather think it'll be a couple of trees to leave for us to stick in the ground. Which is fine and all, although I don't have a shovel. (I will shortly have a small garden hand tool set, though. My packaging supplier, always liberal with the free gifts, has suddenly taken to making those free gifts worth having. Last time it was a toolkit. A really rather nice toolkit. It makes me quite suspiciously happy.)
Anyway. We've almost settled into the new house. The Ikea drama had a surprise twist in the tale: the arrival of the online order included those bloody cupboards that we had hysterics over not finding in the store (and then found, and brought home at great personal stress, not to mention certain Streetcar penalties, but never mind that). Beloved thinks it's all my fault, because they're my cupboards. I think it's both our fault, because we did the shopping together and we discussed the online order together, but secretly I think it's a little bit more his fault, because he placed the bloody online order.) So it's Still Not Over. On the other hand, my Art is now hanging decoratively on the walls.
...
Parental visit now passed, the garden is... well. It has some things in the ground. It also has some things not yet in the ground, and an awful lot of ground lying around where it shouldn't be (including on the lounge floor), and general mess galore. Hm.
Better go clean up now.
