I suspect that when I get sick of this record I am going to loathe it, but for now I am in novelty record heaven. Download it now. Trust me! I'm an anal retentive wanker!
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I feel very mardyarsed today. I don't know why. I think LJ should have an icon for mardyarsed, as it is a wonderful word and very descriptive. It means grumpy, fed up and snappish and a bit blue.
Here in The City That Never Sleeps, But Occasionally Dozes, Scratches Its Arse And Has A Bitch About What Liz Hurley Is Wearing, it is snowing.
Now understand, it does snow in London but the snow has never laid in all the time I've lived here.
You know that scene at the end of Bridget Jones's Diary, with all the whirling in the snow, and the very manly Colin Firth looking all wistful and longing? I was always scoffing at that, because usually the snow is yellow and grey by 10am and gone by 12.
[see also whiney, anal grumble #379: Bridget is a PA, so no way could she afford that flat in that area]
But today, there's about two inches still coating everything and on the news, the Houses of Parliament look like something out of a Victorian fairytale. (Of course, it's still the Brothers Grimm inside there) It's so very beautiful
Cold enough to freeze the nadgers off a badger of course, but very beautiful.
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These are jittery times here. Six Algerians were arrested in Wood Green and in my part of London yesterday after being found in possession of ricin, a toxin made from castor beans which is lethal even in tiny doses. It was the poison that was used to kill the defector Georgy Markov -- someone stabbed him in the leg with an umbrella brushed with ricin.
So of course, the media are going crazy for the story -- and of course, it's a great story -- but I don't sense that ordinary people are as scared as we make them out to be. They seem to be shrugging their shoulders and thinking more about congestion-charging. (which I shall be bitching about a great deal in the months to come).
I do find it unsettling though. I think that the BNP will use this as political capital come the local government elections this May, and battle lines will be drawn and that's going to be entirely unpleasant for all of us.
It pains me to say it, but Tony Blair gave a great speech yesterday about the war with Iraq and our place in the world. I may write more about that and politics later. I give you fair warning so you can skip the pontification.
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So I am watching The X-Files because it's season nine first-run, one I missed off Sky, and I taped but did not watch earlier. And it's okay enough for me to pootle around to, listening in, doing stuff like, uh, typing this entry.
It's actually quite cool. Scully's in it for about 10 minutes and behaves in a Scullyish way and I quite like the other two, though I know this is a minority view in some places. There are inconsistencies in the writing but that's nothing hideously unusual. Skinned corpses and reincarnation -- what's not to like?
But one thing is really, really winding me up and it is this:
SCULLY: Agent Reyes, I need to speak with you now
REYES: What is it, Agent Scully?
Oh for crying out loud, she's seen your chuff, I think it's time for first names now.
* * *
I finished work at the Saturday job this past weekend with a song in my heart and a spring in my step. Up until about 3pm I was thinking "Oh but I quite like this, I am enjoying myself" even though the bastard chief gave me a page about women's sexual dysfunction to lay out, which was near-impossible to illustrate, and made me paranoid that he was taking the piss.
Then, of course, it all went to hell about 4pm, and the deputy editor was telling me how to do my job, so I thought at him, very hard, "Look, you give me the copy, which is the bit you know about, and I'll set out the thing, which I know about, and we'll all be bloody happy, since you have Stevie Wonder's eye for elegant newspaper design".
Alas, my telepathy was clearly faulty that day, and they made me change it. Then The Shortest And Most Unfriendly Man In The World changed it for second edition, which surprised me not at all. It still looked shite. Neener.
One more day of work and I am done for the weekend. The best thing about this job (and the thing they will try to change in this recession, I'm sure) is the four-night week rolling rota. This means that every four weeks or so, I get a five day weekend. Stop work on Wednesday night, don't have to go back until the following Tuesday. I've worked every day but one since Christmas.
This weekend, I plan to geek out, by God. Also -- going to the Post Office to post about 15 things I've been meaning to post since Boxing Day.
And so, to work.