Despite the fact that I've spent what seems like the best part of the last two days being pushed, prodded and poked (and quoting from commercials) by "helpful" people, I'm actually feeling quite cheerful.
The one long term reader of my blog might remember that in one of my first posts, I mentioned about how my wheelchair conducts vibrations rather well, and people who pass me in the street think (hope) I'm rehearsing for a role in such a play as When Harry Met Sally or The Vagina Monologues. Well, on Saturday, when passing over a particularly mini-orgasm inducing doormat thingy in a shopping centre (in The Grafton Centre in Cambridge if any wheelchair users reading want to try it out for themselves. Go on. Give the cleaners something to do), and my friend who I was with at the time mentioned I might like to give The Millenium Bridge a try sometime, as he thought it appeared as if they were of a similar surface.
Oh for the public cheap thrills. And most people think being disabled is just about discrimination, oppression, and patronising old ladies.
Anyway... this afternoon, I was at a loose end (perhaps a poor choice of phrase in this context) and decided to give The Millenium Bridge a try.
As I approached the bridge, the first thing I thought was "Fuck that's steep. I think I'm far too fat and lazy to push up that."
Upon close inspection I decided it was within the realms of my lethargy, so I gave it a try. On the way up to the top all I could think was "It's not wobbly, but Spiderman could have so much fun up here." It was only when I got to the top I thought "huh, no cheap thrills."
I decided on the way down it might be worth trying to see if any more fun was to be had at speed. So I let go of my wheels.
No cheap sexual thrills, but the noise was so cool... it sounded like I was going to take off. I could've pushed up and rolled down for the rest of the afternoon. Except, I do have a smigden of sanity. So I went home instead. But it was fun. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Ahem.
And as for the pushed, prodded and poked... I've been wondering if someone's stuck a sign on my back saying "'Help' me please. Even if I say no. I want you to break my wheelchair by not listening to me when I say 'don't lift that bit' because standing on the street putting my chair back together is really what I want to be doing for 5 minutes when I'm in a lot of pain and really can't deal with being upright. And I also really want you to grab my arm/the back of my chair and pull me about. You're not going to hamper my progress/endanger my safety at all."
I must learn to shout at these people and not be so bloody English. I'm too soft, and constantly at war with myself for not standing up for myself. A couple of weeks ago I had three parking spaces stolen from right in front of my face when, for what ever reason, they were ethically mine in the space of 24 hours.
I must learn to not take things lying down.
Especially when I've learnt from my excursions that there are so many more interesting positions. But I'll end here before I get onto those rumours about me having sex in my wheelchair and breaking it (which, if you've heard them, are untrue).
21 April 2004
19 April 2004
"All good things must come to an end."
Why?
"Most good things must come to an end" is a statement that makes sense. For instance, the FOCUS residential I went on last week was good - I have the bruises to support that statement. But it had to come to an end. It's not humanly possible to maintain that level of intensity for more than nine days before you collapse from exhaustion.
A good thing that had to come to an end. Granted.
But - a few weeks ago I discovered while channel flicking that I had Film Four and the associated channels.
I felt a bit like when Chandler and Joey found out they had free porn.
It had gone downhill in quality since I last had Film Four. Where have all the good films gone? And why had they been replaced with My Best Friends Wedding?
I think I felt a bit like Chandler and Joey would've done if they discovered they had free gay male porn.
Though, there is always that undertone that Chandler might actually like that.
Is there a loophole in my metaphor as it would appear to infer that I also secretly like sappy Julia Roberts romcoms?
No. Apart from Pretty Woman. But that's in a romcom league of it's own.
Despite the poor quality of films being shown - there was no need for my free Film Four to cease. It wasn't hurting anyone, it wasn't exhausting, and it had some potential for entertainment. It was, in fact, a good thing that didn't have to come to an end. But yet, upon returning home at the weekend, I discovered that it had.
There are other good things that don't have to come to an end, but for some reason do. Today I went out to buy moisturiser. Simple thing, surely?
After years of trying to find a product that agreed with my skin, I finally found one. Which I've been using now for probably about 6 or 7 years.
Neutrogena's Clear Pore Multi-Vitamin Moisturiser has been the god of facial skincare products to me. Not only is it spot clearing, but it's multi-vitamin... which leaves me thinking "Hmmm... I might not look like Dot Cotton by the time I'm 40 after all."
That is shite of bull, of course. It's in my genes to go on alright until I'm about 52 - and then to just age rapidly. And no facially applied vitamins will do anything to stop that. One night last week, 3 other female volunteers and myself stayed up quite late. One was armed with a roll of masking tape, just because that was her obsession of the day. The conversation went along the lines of "if you had plastic surgery, what would you have done?" and ended up with all of us so covered in masking tape to demonstrate that we were all weeping where our tearducts got over active after we all rendered ourselves unable to blink. It was quite worrying that the masking tape actually gave one person wonky boobs by her waist and a wrinkly chin. Surgery (or even tape) is perhaps not the way forward for her. Though the rest of us could probably get away with it if we used enough make-up to mask the masking tape.
But, alas, it now appears my moisturiser - which would without doubt of saved me from growing old, not just facially, oh no - is no more.
They seem to of replaced it with Neutrogena Visibly Clear Oil-Free Moisturiser. It apparently contains Aloe and Camomile. Why? Where have my multi-vitamins gone? And why Camomile? If I wanted Camomile on my face, I'd rub tea into it, rather than spending a fortune on expensive moisturisers.
It also claims to be oil-free so as not to block pores - but it doesn't say anything about unblocking them. Oh no. It's predecessor had its pore clearing promise right there in the title.
But Neutrogena's Clear Pore Treatment - the staple product of the Clear Pore range is still being stocked by the Boots in Brent Cross. But why? The Clear Pore Treatment is supposed to be a night cream. The Multi-Vitamin Moisturiser being the related day time product promoted. Now what are you supposed to do? Sleep all the time as you're left with just a night cream? Actually... that sounds quite good.
Product ranges - another good thing that doesn't need to come to an end.
Maybe I should just resort to making a mask out of plaster of paris one FOCUS project (this time actually for my face, rather than my left boob) and hiding behind that for all eternity. I could even write "Damn Neutrogena to hell!" across the forehead as justification of my necessity to hide.
Why?
"Most good things must come to an end" is a statement that makes sense. For instance, the FOCUS residential I went on last week was good - I have the bruises to support that statement. But it had to come to an end. It's not humanly possible to maintain that level of intensity for more than nine days before you collapse from exhaustion.
A good thing that had to come to an end. Granted.
But - a few weeks ago I discovered while channel flicking that I had Film Four and the associated channels.
I felt a bit like when Chandler and Joey found out they had free porn.
It had gone downhill in quality since I last had Film Four. Where have all the good films gone? And why had they been replaced with My Best Friends Wedding?
I think I felt a bit like Chandler and Joey would've done if they discovered they had free gay male porn.
Though, there is always that undertone that Chandler might actually like that.
Is there a loophole in my metaphor as it would appear to infer that I also secretly like sappy Julia Roberts romcoms?
No. Apart from Pretty Woman. But that's in a romcom league of it's own.
Despite the poor quality of films being shown - there was no need for my free Film Four to cease. It wasn't hurting anyone, it wasn't exhausting, and it had some potential for entertainment. It was, in fact, a good thing that didn't have to come to an end. But yet, upon returning home at the weekend, I discovered that it had.
There are other good things that don't have to come to an end, but for some reason do. Today I went out to buy moisturiser. Simple thing, surely?
After years of trying to find a product that agreed with my skin, I finally found one. Which I've been using now for probably about 6 or 7 years.
Neutrogena's Clear Pore Multi-Vitamin Moisturiser has been the god of facial skincare products to me. Not only is it spot clearing, but it's multi-vitamin... which leaves me thinking "Hmmm... I might not look like Dot Cotton by the time I'm 40 after all."
That is shite of bull, of course. It's in my genes to go on alright until I'm about 52 - and then to just age rapidly. And no facially applied vitamins will do anything to stop that. One night last week, 3 other female volunteers and myself stayed up quite late. One was armed with a roll of masking tape, just because that was her obsession of the day. The conversation went along the lines of "if you had plastic surgery, what would you have done?" and ended up with all of us so covered in masking tape to demonstrate that we were all weeping where our tearducts got over active after we all rendered ourselves unable to blink. It was quite worrying that the masking tape actually gave one person wonky boobs by her waist and a wrinkly chin. Surgery (or even tape) is perhaps not the way forward for her. Though the rest of us could probably get away with it if we used enough make-up to mask the masking tape.
But, alas, it now appears my moisturiser - which would without doubt of saved me from growing old, not just facially, oh no - is no more.
They seem to of replaced it with Neutrogena Visibly Clear Oil-Free Moisturiser. It apparently contains Aloe and Camomile. Why? Where have my multi-vitamins gone? And why Camomile? If I wanted Camomile on my face, I'd rub tea into it, rather than spending a fortune on expensive moisturisers.
It also claims to be oil-free so as not to block pores - but it doesn't say anything about unblocking them. Oh no. It's predecessor had its pore clearing promise right there in the title.
But Neutrogena's Clear Pore Treatment - the staple product of the Clear Pore range is still being stocked by the Boots in Brent Cross. But why? The Clear Pore Treatment is supposed to be a night cream. The Multi-Vitamin Moisturiser being the related day time product promoted. Now what are you supposed to do? Sleep all the time as you're left with just a night cream? Actually... that sounds quite good.
Product ranges - another good thing that doesn't need to come to an end.
Maybe I should just resort to making a mask out of plaster of paris one FOCUS project (this time actually for my face, rather than my left boob) and hiding behind that for all eternity. I could even write "Damn Neutrogena to hell!" across the forehead as justification of my necessity to hide.
09 April 2004
There now follows a public service announcement
There will be no blog entries for the next 10 days (or so) as I'm going to be volunteering on a FOCUS residential, and I will not have access to a computer.
That is all.
There will be no blog entries for the next 10 days (or so) as I'm going to be volunteering on a FOCUS residential, and I will not have access to a computer.
That is all.
07 April 2004
This evening I saw the absolutely amazing The Station Agent. It's about a trainspotter, and the unusual group of friends he attracts. It's incredibly funny, and if you're a bit of a geeky "spotter" type (i.e. those playing CNPS) it will reassure you, that actually, you are (or at least could potentially be) incredibly cool. Or at least it's nice to imagine I could be incredibly cool.
The most impressive thing about the film is they have an actual, genuine, disabled person billed above such "stars" as Michelle Williams, and that bloke who plays the press officer on Spin City. None of your Daniel Day Lewis or Samuel L Jackson crap (is it a pre-requisite for being a faux-cripple to have too many names? Actually, it can't be. Look at Tom Hanks and Dustin Hoffman. Maybe it's just "desired criteria" rather than "essential"). Oh no. This is a good film.
This is where irony starts to creep in. I saw this hilarious, brilliant film, in which one of the topics covered is disability at The Screen On The Hill in Belsize Park. Why Ironic? It's an evil, cripple-hating cinema, and you're not actually allowed to take your wheelchair into the auditorium. How's that for inclusive programming?
It's an incredibly well crafted film, and I did grin almost all the way through (apart from when Fin drunkenly falls over, obviously. I shall leave my remarks on that moment at that to avoid providing "spoilers"). I think being disabled, I got a lot more of the jokes than most of the audience... but, ask any comedian who recognises me... I'm sure they'll tell you that I just laugh randomly anyway.
One of the main points in the film is that people either ignore Fin because he's disabled, or they go out of their way to be nice to him. No-one just accepts him as an equal. He does forge a strong group of friends, but these were all under the latter group of people who were extra nice to him. It's an incredibly beautiful film (so are the two lead males, if that is the gender you prefer to lust after), very warm and funny, and I'd highly recommend it.
After leaving The Fascists On The Hill, my friend and I decided to make our way into the nearest pub. Until we realised all the patrons in it were white, male, in Adidas T-shirts, shouting and cheering at a TV screen, so we guessed they were either watching football, or there was another Jim Davidson repeat on TV. Either way, we chose to walk straight past, and find the second nearest pub.
As soon as we went in the door, a guy said to me "Those are excellent wheels. I know a lot about wheels, I'm into BMX's"
"Right....." said the outer me, while my inner monologue nearly wet herself, not only at him on a face value level, but also with the irony of the film we'd just come from in mind. I also loved the fact that in the film there was the following exchange:
Fin: Horses are good, too
Joe: OK, pass me the joint.
And there was a big sign on the wall in the pub saying "No horseriding on the grass."
I tried to ignore the wheel obsessive, but he did persist, such as encouraging us to join in with his and his wife's game of "Name That Tune" - as performed by the jazz pianist. I was the first one to recognise the jazz piano cover of Stairway to Heaven. Yes - sounds as odd as it, well, sounds.
So I caved. I listened to him babbling on about how great my wheels are ("I'm afraid I have to get the repairers out to them far too often to be able to concur").
"Didn't I see you walking when you first came in here?"
"Yes. I can walk a bit. There's a flight of steps to get into the pub, and I can't fly."
"You should drink some Red Bull!" said he, clearly thinking he was a genius.
"Riiiiight.... now why didn't *I* think of that. All my access problems would be solved!"
All those companies (e.g. *cough* Screen Cinemas *cough*) who are resistant to making changes in advance of October 2004 should work in conjunction with Red Bull's advertising agents. Make disabled individuals adapt to the world, rather than bringing about needed social change and equality. Yes. Let's take a step back into the Medical Model days.
"How long have you been in that thing?"
"Didn't you see me sit down about fifteen minutes ago?"
"Yeah, but you know what I mean, how did you get into that thing?"
"With a sitting motion?"
"You're not just lazy are you?"
"Yes, that's exactly it."
But, then of course, I had to explain exactly what Osteogenesis Imperfecta is.
He then went for a piss. It was his wife's turn:
"I am so sorry about him."
"That's alright. I'm used to it. I'm just finding the irony hilarious, cos we've just been to see this film...."
"Really? Wow. But, I know exactly how you feel, right, cos when I was a kid I had really bad eczema."
"Riiiiiiight."
As I was pondering on the frequency with which I've heard that: "Yeah, no, I know exactly how you feel to of spent a large part of your childhood in plaster cos you used to break your arms doing things like eating your dinner, and you can no longer move several of your joints where they've been completely shattered and destroyed, because, right, I once broke my little finger, and it was really painful, and for three weeks I had to have it strapped to the next one, and I couldn't wank because the plaster kept getting caught in my hair." - her husband returned. He caught the tail end of the conversation and told us the tale about how he got his torso covered in allergic eczema after trimming his grandmother's bush while topless in Spain.
Fortunately, my friend and I were able to break away from the conversation when we starting discussing the taxidermised animals adorning the walls, creating the overall effect of the house inhabited by Norman Bates and his mother.
Yes - it was a quirky pub. I think we fitted in quite well. A fitting end to an interesting day.
The most impressive thing about the film is they have an actual, genuine, disabled person billed above such "stars" as Michelle Williams, and that bloke who plays the press officer on Spin City. None of your Daniel Day Lewis or Samuel L Jackson crap (is it a pre-requisite for being a faux-cripple to have too many names? Actually, it can't be. Look at Tom Hanks and Dustin Hoffman. Maybe it's just "desired criteria" rather than "essential"). Oh no. This is a good film.
This is where irony starts to creep in. I saw this hilarious, brilliant film, in which one of the topics covered is disability at The Screen On The Hill in Belsize Park. Why Ironic? It's an evil, cripple-hating cinema, and you're not actually allowed to take your wheelchair into the auditorium. How's that for inclusive programming?
It's an incredibly well crafted film, and I did grin almost all the way through (apart from when Fin drunkenly falls over, obviously. I shall leave my remarks on that moment at that to avoid providing "spoilers"). I think being disabled, I got a lot more of the jokes than most of the audience... but, ask any comedian who recognises me... I'm sure they'll tell you that I just laugh randomly anyway.
One of the main points in the film is that people either ignore Fin because he's disabled, or they go out of their way to be nice to him. No-one just accepts him as an equal. He does forge a strong group of friends, but these were all under the latter group of people who were extra nice to him. It's an incredibly beautiful film (so are the two lead males, if that is the gender you prefer to lust after), very warm and funny, and I'd highly recommend it.
After leaving The Fascists On The Hill, my friend and I decided to make our way into the nearest pub. Until we realised all the patrons in it were white, male, in Adidas T-shirts, shouting and cheering at a TV screen, so we guessed they were either watching football, or there was another Jim Davidson repeat on TV. Either way, we chose to walk straight past, and find the second nearest pub.
As soon as we went in the door, a guy said to me "Those are excellent wheels. I know a lot about wheels, I'm into BMX's"
"Right....." said the outer me, while my inner monologue nearly wet herself, not only at him on a face value level, but also with the irony of the film we'd just come from in mind. I also loved the fact that in the film there was the following exchange:
Fin: Horses are good, too
Joe: OK, pass me the joint.
And there was a big sign on the wall in the pub saying "No horseriding on the grass."
I tried to ignore the wheel obsessive, but he did persist, such as encouraging us to join in with his and his wife's game of "Name That Tune" - as performed by the jazz pianist. I was the first one to recognise the jazz piano cover of Stairway to Heaven. Yes - sounds as odd as it, well, sounds.
So I caved. I listened to him babbling on about how great my wheels are ("I'm afraid I have to get the repairers out to them far too often to be able to concur").
"Didn't I see you walking when you first came in here?"
"Yes. I can walk a bit. There's a flight of steps to get into the pub, and I can't fly."
"You should drink some Red Bull!" said he, clearly thinking he was a genius.
"Riiiiight.... now why didn't *I* think of that. All my access problems would be solved!"
All those companies (e.g. *cough* Screen Cinemas *cough*) who are resistant to making changes in advance of October 2004 should work in conjunction with Red Bull's advertising agents. Make disabled individuals adapt to the world, rather than bringing about needed social change and equality. Yes. Let's take a step back into the Medical Model days.
"How long have you been in that thing?"
"Didn't you see me sit down about fifteen minutes ago?"
"Yeah, but you know what I mean, how did you get into that thing?"
"With a sitting motion?"
"You're not just lazy are you?"
"Yes, that's exactly it."
But, then of course, I had to explain exactly what Osteogenesis Imperfecta is.
He then went for a piss. It was his wife's turn:
"I am so sorry about him."
"That's alright. I'm used to it. I'm just finding the irony hilarious, cos we've just been to see this film...."
"Really? Wow. But, I know exactly how you feel, right, cos when I was a kid I had really bad eczema."
"Riiiiiiight."
As I was pondering on the frequency with which I've heard that: "Yeah, no, I know exactly how you feel to of spent a large part of your childhood in plaster cos you used to break your arms doing things like eating your dinner, and you can no longer move several of your joints where they've been completely shattered and destroyed, because, right, I once broke my little finger, and it was really painful, and for three weeks I had to have it strapped to the next one, and I couldn't wank because the plaster kept getting caught in my hair." - her husband returned. He caught the tail end of the conversation and told us the tale about how he got his torso covered in allergic eczema after trimming his grandmother's bush while topless in Spain.
Fortunately, my friend and I were able to break away from the conversation when we starting discussing the taxidermised animals adorning the walls, creating the overall effect of the house inhabited by Norman Bates and his mother.
Yes - it was a quirky pub. I think we fitted in quite well. A fitting end to an interesting day.
05 April 2004
What could be so dangerous in the Swiss Cottage area that it necessitates the attention of an Austrian huntsman with full hunting kit and excessive body odour?
On Saturday night, I was on a bus on my way to meet some friends in the West End. I looked around and spotted a man, dressed like an oversized Boy Scout, with a bag on his back his back that looked heavy enough to be concealing a celebrity curled up into a ball trying to avoid photographers. He was also carrying another bag with a couple of huge poles sticking out of it.
The "space designated for wheelchair user" on a bus also serves as standing room, and for a while I found myself sitting there with his oversized duffle bag in my face, praying that the driver wouldn't brake sharply, as the bag looked quite weighty, and I was fairly confident that one hit with that would have most, if not all, of my facial bones broken. I was quite frightened.
I then became afraid of slightly more than just the weightyness of his equipment when a woman tried to alight the bus, and he just randomly chose at that moment that he'd had enough of standing and physically ploughed her out of the way shouting with an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice "Excuse me, I'm trying to sit down!"
After he had moved seats several times, a woman boarded and said to him "That looks like quite an expedition..."
"It is necessary. I am a huntsman from Austria" he responded sounding as mechanical as The Terminator
By this point I was really feeling quite nervous and wishing he wasn't sitting behind me. Why is it necessary? What needs hunting in Swiss Cottage? Is there a deadly Werewolf terrorising North London that has somehow evaded the press? Or has there been a big public story about how they've had to seek the help of Austrian huntsmen to control wild animals plaguing North London, and I've just missed it in my lethargic avoidance of news?
"Really, wow, that's interesting. So, what do you hunt?" the lady continued
"Wild goats. Mostly" said The Scoutinator in a tone so sinister it actually made me shiver as I wondered what he meant by "mostly." Especially as I'm unaware of a wild goat problem inside the M25.
They then proceed to have a conversation about the origins of language, but every now and then he'd say something that sounded like it came straight of a horror movie. I was quite glad to get off the bus and away from the scary person armed with murdering equipment.
It would appear I was travelling on the Oddity Express. Aside from my own bizarre mental and physical features, and The Scoutinator, there was also an elderly bearded gentleman, in full waterproof clothing sitting near me with a hairy nose. By this I don't mean he had unkempt hair protruding from his nostrils, I mean he actually had hair growing on his nose. I've seen countless men and women with hirsutism of varying severity... but I have never, ever seen anyone with a hairy nose before. I would've loved to of seen the palms of his hands.
Don't werewolves grow hair in strange places? Huh...
On Saturday night, I was on a bus on my way to meet some friends in the West End. I looked around and spotted a man, dressed like an oversized Boy Scout, with a bag on his back his back that looked heavy enough to be concealing a celebrity curled up into a ball trying to avoid photographers. He was also carrying another bag with a couple of huge poles sticking out of it.
The "space designated for wheelchair user" on a bus also serves as standing room, and for a while I found myself sitting there with his oversized duffle bag in my face, praying that the driver wouldn't brake sharply, as the bag looked quite weighty, and I was fairly confident that one hit with that would have most, if not all, of my facial bones broken. I was quite frightened.
I then became afraid of slightly more than just the weightyness of his equipment when a woman tried to alight the bus, and he just randomly chose at that moment that he'd had enough of standing and physically ploughed her out of the way shouting with an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice "Excuse me, I'm trying to sit down!"
After he had moved seats several times, a woman boarded and said to him "That looks like quite an expedition..."
"It is necessary. I am a huntsman from Austria" he responded sounding as mechanical as The Terminator
By this point I was really feeling quite nervous and wishing he wasn't sitting behind me. Why is it necessary? What needs hunting in Swiss Cottage? Is there a deadly Werewolf terrorising North London that has somehow evaded the press? Or has there been a big public story about how they've had to seek the help of Austrian huntsmen to control wild animals plaguing North London, and I've just missed it in my lethargic avoidance of news?
"Really, wow, that's interesting. So, what do you hunt?" the lady continued
"Wild goats. Mostly" said The Scoutinator in a tone so sinister it actually made me shiver as I wondered what he meant by "mostly." Especially as I'm unaware of a wild goat problem inside the M25.
They then proceed to have a conversation about the origins of language, but every now and then he'd say something that sounded like it came straight of a horror movie. I was quite glad to get off the bus and away from the scary person armed with murdering equipment.
It would appear I was travelling on the Oddity Express. Aside from my own bizarre mental and physical features, and The Scoutinator, there was also an elderly bearded gentleman, in full waterproof clothing sitting near me with a hairy nose. By this I don't mean he had unkempt hair protruding from his nostrils, I mean he actually had hair growing on his nose. I've seen countless men and women with hirsutism of varying severity... but I have never, ever seen anyone with a hairy nose before. I would've loved to of seen the palms of his hands.
Don't werewolves grow hair in strange places? Huh...
01 April 2004
Pampering should be good for insomnia, shouldn't it?
So, last night I had a manicure. Should be relaxing and soothing, yes?
Soaking my hands in a bowl of water... fine. Having my nails gently filed... fine. Then it comes to the cuticles.
"I used to have immaculate cuticles when I was a student. Playing with them in lectures was much more interesting than listening" said I, as the manicurist used an implement to push skin off my fingernails.
Then there was stepping up of a level. She pulled what was effectively a scapel out of her box of magic tricks, and started carving away. I was flinching on a grand scale.
"This is a very weird thing to allow someone else to do to you"
"What?"
"Letting a stranger carve skin off your hands"
"Yes, I suppose it is. It's my favourite part though"
After the scalpel, there was the buffer. The buffer was rough stuff, on a sponge. I flinched even more than when she was peeling skin off with a sharp tool.
"Sorry. I just really don't like sponge. It freaks me out"
"Really? I suppose we all have weird things like that..."
"When I was at school, I was only ever allowed to do the normal PE about three times ever. And it would inevitably be rounders. I couldn't field, cos wheelchairs and sports fields just don't go, so I always ended up batting, and I always got hit in the face by the ball..."
"... a sponge ball?"
"No, I'm slowly getting to the sponge part"
"Right, you got hit in the face with a hard, leather ball?"
"Yes. But the next time I was allowed to do the normal PE, I'd always be quite chirpy and happy to be joining in - until I once more ended up with a bloody nose. But I'd still come back for more. But, then when I was made to do the "special" PE, which was basically just throwing a sponge ball back and forth for an hour, I'd be cowering in the corner with my sweatshirt pulled over my head screaming. I don't like sponge."
I thought the manicurist was going to wet herself. It must be the way I tell them in person.
"I always got injured in PE in school too. I'm so clumsy. My two-year old godson puts me to shame - he's so much more co-ordinated than me."
"I'm so glad you told me that after you moved the sharp instrument away from my hands"
Yes. Very relaxing. Not as frightening as the haircut I had today though, but I haven't had sufficient chance to deal with that internally yet. I'm not yet up to sharing the details of that with the group.
So, last night I had a manicure. Should be relaxing and soothing, yes?
Soaking my hands in a bowl of water... fine. Having my nails gently filed... fine. Then it comes to the cuticles.
"I used to have immaculate cuticles when I was a student. Playing with them in lectures was much more interesting than listening" said I, as the manicurist used an implement to push skin off my fingernails.
Then there was stepping up of a level. She pulled what was effectively a scapel out of her box of magic tricks, and started carving away. I was flinching on a grand scale.
"This is a very weird thing to allow someone else to do to you"
"What?"
"Letting a stranger carve skin off your hands"
"Yes, I suppose it is. It's my favourite part though"
After the scalpel, there was the buffer. The buffer was rough stuff, on a sponge. I flinched even more than when she was peeling skin off with a sharp tool.
"Sorry. I just really don't like sponge. It freaks me out"
"Really? I suppose we all have weird things like that..."
"When I was at school, I was only ever allowed to do the normal PE about three times ever. And it would inevitably be rounders. I couldn't field, cos wheelchairs and sports fields just don't go, so I always ended up batting, and I always got hit in the face by the ball..."
"... a sponge ball?"
"No, I'm slowly getting to the sponge part"
"Right, you got hit in the face with a hard, leather ball?"
"Yes. But the next time I was allowed to do the normal PE, I'd always be quite chirpy and happy to be joining in - until I once more ended up with a bloody nose. But I'd still come back for more. But, then when I was made to do the "special" PE, which was basically just throwing a sponge ball back and forth for an hour, I'd be cowering in the corner with my sweatshirt pulled over my head screaming. I don't like sponge."
I thought the manicurist was going to wet herself. It must be the way I tell them in person.
"I always got injured in PE in school too. I'm so clumsy. My two-year old godson puts me to shame - he's so much more co-ordinated than me."
"I'm so glad you told me that after you moved the sharp instrument away from my hands"
Yes. Very relaxing. Not as frightening as the haircut I had today though, but I haven't had sufficient chance to deal with that internally yet. I'm not yet up to sharing the details of that with the group.
Dearest reader of Lisy Babe's Blog. (yes, both of you);
Calm your fears - I am not dead. Not that anyone seems to of noted my two week absence. Hmmm.
I have found myself unable to write anything of late. The cause - insomnia. My sharp wit, and excellent story telling skills have gone on holiday. Along with my ability to sleep.
I am hoping all will return soon - I'm getting rather bored of spending my nights rocking back and forth in front of the telly, watching episodes of Dangermouse approximately as old as me, and thus spending my days... rocking back and forth in front of the telly, watching episodes of Dangermouse approximately as old as me.
Will post again once I've had a proper nights sleep - or I've just gone into that state of insanity and come here to wiffle.
Calm your fears - I am not dead. Not that anyone seems to of noted my two week absence. Hmmm.
I have found myself unable to write anything of late. The cause - insomnia. My sharp wit, and excellent story telling skills have gone on holiday. Along with my ability to sleep.
I am hoping all will return soon - I'm getting rather bored of spending my nights rocking back and forth in front of the telly, watching episodes of Dangermouse approximately as old as me, and thus spending my days... rocking back and forth in front of the telly, watching episodes of Dangermouse approximately as old as me.
Will post again once I've had a proper nights sleep - or I've just gone into that state of insanity and come here to wiffle.
17 March 2004
This afternoon I found myself on my hands and knees, scrubbing away at curry ingrained in the kitchen floor. Whilst in that slightly interesting of positions, I found myself looking up at the fridge, and reading the messages that have been left for me. And realising their importance.
Yup, Fridge Poetry. One of my finer investments. It's always lovely to skulk into the kitchen before you're fully awake, searching for caffeine whilst semi-conscious, only to find "I am a shaven slut" written on your fridge as you reach towards it for milk.
And on the subject of milk... "careless breast milk and pea stew" was one of the more abstract phrases on the fridge. Is it marketed at children or adults? Would it be some kind of jarred baby food? And how is it careless? Was there a spillage of breast milk and pea stew? Or was it meant to be simply pea stew, until there was a spillage?
For a while, I used to leave collections of three words on the fridge, for people to make into sentences. "soup, pubic, eye" was one such selection. It was decided that "pubic eye soup" was sufficiently entertaining as a sentence of it's own without the need for any other linguistic ingredients to be added. Is it some kind of bean?
"mistress spider offer expensive temptation to virile Harry Potter"
Mistress Spider. I'm sure that most people seek for their dominatrixes to be slightly frightening, but really. There was a spider in our hallway last night. It had an arse as big as mine, and when it moved me and my flatmate both ran away screaming (oddly enough, both into the wrong persons bedroom)... and she's the one that usually "frees" the spiders when I run out the house screaming. I couldn't even lure the cat in to come in and eat it. Not that he would. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to do with a moth when he's actually got it under his paw. I was struck with a moments inspiration while at the window, shouting for the cat... his scratching post is heavy, with a large, flat bottom (a bit like me) and a post-like bit, meaning I could drop it on the spider from quite a distance. So I did. My flatmate then hoovered up the corpse. Which was quite impressive given the size of it. Before being reduced to only two dimensions by a feline accessory I thought we'd need to construct a coffin to get it out the door. It was huge.
And, surely, Harry Potter would be the least sensible of all teenage boys on the planet to attempt to seduce, given how little interest he's showing in sex as he plods through his teenage years. He turned 11 near the start of the first book. By that age I was halfway through the longest lasting relationship I've ever had (two years)(isn't that just fucking tragic?), and I was on a mission to be as slutty as possible (insecure? Moi?). I suspect Mistress Spider isn't the greatest of earners in her chosen profession.
"never bugger wild mice"
Useful piece of advice. "Never bugger wild cats" I think would be more fitting for this house. My flatmates cat keeps trying to bring his boyfriends home. The one on Monday night resulted in me getting locked in the flat on Tuesday morning, after I was trying to get him out of the house, and managed to leave my keys on the outside of our flat door in the entrance hall. The flat door between me and the keys which my flatmate locks on her way to work in the mornings. That was fun.
"she put a toothbrush up his bottom with a rubber hand"
A dentists surgery I wish to steer clear of.
"saucy slave Howard has a whopper in his trousers"
Burger King's new ad campaign. Just don't ask for mayonnaise.
And, a slogan to go with Burger King's new side order: "enjoy pickled vagina you kinky brunette tart"
"experience hairless crumpet"
An invitation from the shaven slut? Or just a reminder to stop shaving my legs next to the bread bin?
Yup, Fridge Poetry. One of my finer investments. It's always lovely to skulk into the kitchen before you're fully awake, searching for caffeine whilst semi-conscious, only to find "I am a shaven slut" written on your fridge as you reach towards it for milk.
And on the subject of milk... "careless breast milk and pea stew" was one of the more abstract phrases on the fridge. Is it marketed at children or adults? Would it be some kind of jarred baby food? And how is it careless? Was there a spillage of breast milk and pea stew? Or was it meant to be simply pea stew, until there was a spillage?
For a while, I used to leave collections of three words on the fridge, for people to make into sentences. "soup, pubic, eye" was one such selection. It was decided that "pubic eye soup" was sufficiently entertaining as a sentence of it's own without the need for any other linguistic ingredients to be added. Is it some kind of bean?
"mistress spider offer expensive temptation to virile Harry Potter"
Mistress Spider. I'm sure that most people seek for their dominatrixes to be slightly frightening, but really. There was a spider in our hallway last night. It had an arse as big as mine, and when it moved me and my flatmate both ran away screaming (oddly enough, both into the wrong persons bedroom)... and she's the one that usually "frees" the spiders when I run out the house screaming. I couldn't even lure the cat in to come in and eat it. Not that he would. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to do with a moth when he's actually got it under his paw. I was struck with a moments inspiration while at the window, shouting for the cat... his scratching post is heavy, with a large, flat bottom (a bit like me) and a post-like bit, meaning I could drop it on the spider from quite a distance. So I did. My flatmate then hoovered up the corpse. Which was quite impressive given the size of it. Before being reduced to only two dimensions by a feline accessory I thought we'd need to construct a coffin to get it out the door. It was huge.
And, surely, Harry Potter would be the least sensible of all teenage boys on the planet to attempt to seduce, given how little interest he's showing in sex as he plods through his teenage years. He turned 11 near the start of the first book. By that age I was halfway through the longest lasting relationship I've ever had (two years)(isn't that just fucking tragic?), and I was on a mission to be as slutty as possible (insecure? Moi?). I suspect Mistress Spider isn't the greatest of earners in her chosen profession.
"never bugger wild mice"
Useful piece of advice. "Never bugger wild cats" I think would be more fitting for this house. My flatmates cat keeps trying to bring his boyfriends home. The one on Monday night resulted in me getting locked in the flat on Tuesday morning, after I was trying to get him out of the house, and managed to leave my keys on the outside of our flat door in the entrance hall. The flat door between me and the keys which my flatmate locks on her way to work in the mornings. That was fun.
"she put a toothbrush up his bottom with a rubber hand"
A dentists surgery I wish to steer clear of.
"saucy slave Howard has a whopper in his trousers"
Burger King's new ad campaign. Just don't ask for mayonnaise.
And, a slogan to go with Burger King's new side order: "enjoy pickled vagina you kinky brunette tart"
"experience hairless crumpet"
An invitation from the shaven slut? Or just a reminder to stop shaving my legs next to the bread bin?
13 March 2004
Days like today are incredibly bad, and incredibly wrong.
When I get up before dawn (I'm not referring to my imaginary girlfriend) you know something dreadful is going on. Like the time I was very bored with life, going slightly mad, and took to going to be in the audience for live breakfast television on a regular basis because it was something to do for a couple of hours, and involved getting a free breakfast.
This morning I left my bed unneccessarily early under duress. Sadly, not by anyone present at the time. I had received previous instructions that today, there was something I must do.
The way things go in the first hour or so of the day is usually indicative of what the day will be like on the whole. This morning, 20 minutes after leaving the house, I had a woman with bad teeth come up to me in Belsize Park. Initially I couldn't understand what she was saying, but then I caught "when you get your finger caught in it or have to blow your nose?" I figured she was talking about my facial piercings - after all, what else could I get my finger caught in that could be affected by me blowing my nose?
This was the second time in two days my facial piercings have attracted attention. On Thursday, a boy of about 3 was in the queue behind me in the Post Office. Usually, if small children want to pose questions about me to their guardians, they will ask either "what is wrong with that lady's legs?" or, of course, "why is that lady in a wheelchair?". Once or twice "why is that lady so fat?"... but the piercings seem to go unnoticed. This boy was persistant.
"What's in that lady's nose? What is that in the lady's nose? What's that? Answer in English. What is that in that lady's nose in English?"
As my friend said, it was like hearing the boring half of a phone conversation as I couldn't undetand what the father was answering. The most odd thing about this for me is that we were only a couple of miles north of Camden Town. Surely by this point in his life, and living in this area, the boy must've seen people with more facial piercings than my measly 10. And why was he only remarking on my nasal accoutrements? I think the fact that I've had a needle shoved into my mouth is far more interesting.
But, yes. Back to Belsize Park. Which seems to serve as a hangout for a lot of London's more colourful characters. The other day I was at a bus stop in Belsize Park and an elderly bloke came up to me and said with a Cornish accent "Are you alright? It's just that my wife, well, she's just like you."
I so desperately wanted to reply "What, a raving lesbian? That must be so hard for you to live with that knowledge," - curse these manners of mine for preventing me from saying that.
10 minutes later, I was still sitting, waiting, and I had another bloke say "Are you waiting to cross the road?" This time I was a bit more plucky. I accompanied my "no, I'm waiting for a bus" with evil eyes and a slightly impatient tone.
None of these people beat the tiny, frail old woman who came up to me and asked me if I wanted help. When I said "no, I'm fine", her reply was
"I'm sorry dear. I didn't mean to force myself upon you. I've helped people like you who were stuck before, see."
I was still cringing by the time I got to Golders Green at the mental images flooding my brain, following her suggestion that she forced herself upon me. Bad and wrong. Call me ageist - but she just wasn't my type.
I've wandered down tangent lane with these Belsize Parkian characters. Forgive me.
Yes, today, started off oddly. By the time I'd gotten as far as E16 (just one short of a boy band. A bit like Westlife now) I could sense that I would really of been better off had I stayed home and slept.
The queue of people hoping to audition for Big Brother stretched right along the side of the ExCel building. It was such a bleak morning. I was there because I'm constantly being harrassed and told that I should be on Big Brother, that I'm fascinating and would be an asset. Clearly, I spend most of my time with slightly crazy people (perhaps they secretly live in Belsize Park?), and I was not offered the option of not going. Well, I could've not gone I suppose - but I'd never hear the end of it. I'm sure, had I not gone today it would even be mentioned in my epitaph:
"Lisy lived a full and brave life, despite her 'problems'. She achieved many things during her 104 years - even if she didn't audition for Big Brother in 2004."
After about 5 minutes of sitting in the queue I found myself rolling my eyes with boredom, every time I heard someone near me speak. I have never before met so many people who are so dull and tedious, and will never get on telly due to their lack of charisma and personality (well, I say that, they could, I suppose, of all been contestants on last years Big Brother). I sat in this queue for 3 hours. By the time I got to the front I was too bored to think of anything else other than how much I was looking forward to going home.
Upon reaching the front of the queue, it was truly special to see all these people who had been so cocky about how wonderful/beautiful/experienced at these things they are just freeze and have nothing to say other than "um, yeah. You should pick me, cos, I'm, err... fun."
They were not selected.
Despite my wit, I was not selected to enter the building either. Funny that.
Embarking upon my journey home, someone who had also been rejected started speaking to me as I rounded the corner towards the DLR station. When he said to me "You used to go to Brunel, didn't you?" I realised he was someone I once had a conversation with on the long night bus journey to Uxbridge. As the train bound for Lewisham arrived at platform 4, he said that he might return tomorrow to audition again, this time with cum stains on his shirt, following tonights excursion to G-A-Y. I wished him luck with that.
Of course, the recruitment process is pointless. They're only going to attract people like me with as much charisma as Tipp Ex. And not even the pink Tipp Ex for pink paper... just normal, boring Tipp Ex. What they should do is send a Big Brother recruitment unit to Belsize Park and just wait.
That would be a TV show worth watching.
When I get up before dawn (I'm not referring to my imaginary girlfriend) you know something dreadful is going on. Like the time I was very bored with life, going slightly mad, and took to going to be in the audience for live breakfast television on a regular basis because it was something to do for a couple of hours, and involved getting a free breakfast.
This morning I left my bed unneccessarily early under duress. Sadly, not by anyone present at the time. I had received previous instructions that today, there was something I must do.
The way things go in the first hour or so of the day is usually indicative of what the day will be like on the whole. This morning, 20 minutes after leaving the house, I had a woman with bad teeth come up to me in Belsize Park. Initially I couldn't understand what she was saying, but then I caught "when you get your finger caught in it or have to blow your nose?" I figured she was talking about my facial piercings - after all, what else could I get my finger caught in that could be affected by me blowing my nose?
This was the second time in two days my facial piercings have attracted attention. On Thursday, a boy of about 3 was in the queue behind me in the Post Office. Usually, if small children want to pose questions about me to their guardians, they will ask either "what is wrong with that lady's legs?" or, of course, "why is that lady in a wheelchair?". Once or twice "why is that lady so fat?"... but the piercings seem to go unnoticed. This boy was persistant.
"What's in that lady's nose? What is that in the lady's nose? What's that? Answer in English. What is that in that lady's nose in English?"
As my friend said, it was like hearing the boring half of a phone conversation as I couldn't undetand what the father was answering. The most odd thing about this for me is that we were only a couple of miles north of Camden Town. Surely by this point in his life, and living in this area, the boy must've seen people with more facial piercings than my measly 10. And why was he only remarking on my nasal accoutrements? I think the fact that I've had a needle shoved into my mouth is far more interesting.
But, yes. Back to Belsize Park. Which seems to serve as a hangout for a lot of London's more colourful characters. The other day I was at a bus stop in Belsize Park and an elderly bloke came up to me and said with a Cornish accent "Are you alright? It's just that my wife, well, she's just like you."
I so desperately wanted to reply "What, a raving lesbian? That must be so hard for you to live with that knowledge," - curse these manners of mine for preventing me from saying that.
10 minutes later, I was still sitting, waiting, and I had another bloke say "Are you waiting to cross the road?" This time I was a bit more plucky. I accompanied my "no, I'm waiting for a bus" with evil eyes and a slightly impatient tone.
None of these people beat the tiny, frail old woman who came up to me and asked me if I wanted help. When I said "no, I'm fine", her reply was
"I'm sorry dear. I didn't mean to force myself upon you. I've helped people like you who were stuck before, see."
I was still cringing by the time I got to Golders Green at the mental images flooding my brain, following her suggestion that she forced herself upon me. Bad and wrong. Call me ageist - but she just wasn't my type.
I've wandered down tangent lane with these Belsize Parkian characters. Forgive me.
Yes, today, started off oddly. By the time I'd gotten as far as E16 (just one short of a boy band. A bit like Westlife now) I could sense that I would really of been better off had I stayed home and slept.
The queue of people hoping to audition for Big Brother stretched right along the side of the ExCel building. It was such a bleak morning. I was there because I'm constantly being harrassed and told that I should be on Big Brother, that I'm fascinating and would be an asset. Clearly, I spend most of my time with slightly crazy people (perhaps they secretly live in Belsize Park?), and I was not offered the option of not going. Well, I could've not gone I suppose - but I'd never hear the end of it. I'm sure, had I not gone today it would even be mentioned in my epitaph:
"Lisy lived a full and brave life, despite her 'problems'. She achieved many things during her 104 years - even if she didn't audition for Big Brother in 2004."
After about 5 minutes of sitting in the queue I found myself rolling my eyes with boredom, every time I heard someone near me speak. I have never before met so many people who are so dull and tedious, and will never get on telly due to their lack of charisma and personality (well, I say that, they could, I suppose, of all been contestants on last years Big Brother). I sat in this queue for 3 hours. By the time I got to the front I was too bored to think of anything else other than how much I was looking forward to going home.
Upon reaching the front of the queue, it was truly special to see all these people who had been so cocky about how wonderful/beautiful/experienced at these things they are just freeze and have nothing to say other than "um, yeah. You should pick me, cos, I'm, err... fun."
They were not selected.
Despite my wit, I was not selected to enter the building either. Funny that.
Embarking upon my journey home, someone who had also been rejected started speaking to me as I rounded the corner towards the DLR station. When he said to me "You used to go to Brunel, didn't you?" I realised he was someone I once had a conversation with on the long night bus journey to Uxbridge. As the train bound for Lewisham arrived at platform 4, he said that he might return tomorrow to audition again, this time with cum stains on his shirt, following tonights excursion to G-A-Y. I wished him luck with that.
Of course, the recruitment process is pointless. They're only going to attract people like me with as much charisma as Tipp Ex. And not even the pink Tipp Ex for pink paper... just normal, boring Tipp Ex. What they should do is send a Big Brother recruitment unit to Belsize Park and just wait.
That would be a TV show worth watching.
12 March 2004
I'm sorry, but I have to rant.
The bloody Moron5 (or whatever they're called) song just came on the radio again.
You cannot begin to imagine how much I hate that song. I find it more distressing than anything Westlife ever released (which is really something. And isn't it great news that they're falling apart?).
It's not the song per se I find distressing (though it is truly dreadful) - it's how the song has been received.
Your generic Backpassage Boys type band will usually only get played on radio stations like Capital, and stations like Virgin won't touch it with a bargepole. But, for some reason, Moron5 have got the music industry all flustered and people don't seem to be able to recognise that they sound like a cross between a boy band and a pervy phonecall (you know a song is pure class when they need to put sound effects of heavy breathing over it).
I'm sorry Mr Moron - but if you're finding it harder and harder to breathe, you're clearly having an attack of either asthma or panic. Whichever, you really should seek medical help, and not catharsis through shite pop music.
The bloody Moron5 (or whatever they're called) song just came on the radio again.
You cannot begin to imagine how much I hate that song. I find it more distressing than anything Westlife ever released (which is really something. And isn't it great news that they're falling apart?).
It's not the song per se I find distressing (though it is truly dreadful) - it's how the song has been received.
Your generic Backpassage Boys type band will usually only get played on radio stations like Capital, and stations like Virgin won't touch it with a bargepole. But, for some reason, Moron5 have got the music industry all flustered and people don't seem to be able to recognise that they sound like a cross between a boy band and a pervy phonecall (you know a song is pure class when they need to put sound effects of heavy breathing over it).
I'm sorry Mr Moron - but if you're finding it harder and harder to breathe, you're clearly having an attack of either asthma or panic. Whichever, you really should seek medical help, and not catharsis through shite pop music.
11 March 2004
This brought a little ray of sunshine to my life.
Firstly, it served to remind me that the Disability Rights movement hasn't died, as they've been much quieter over the last few years. Possibly a good thing, as if they'd been as vocal during my student days as they were when I was in my early teens and stuck in Cambridge... I'd almost certainly have been charged with a string of civil disobedience offences by now. Yes, it would make me seem "interesting", but, it's not like I need a criminal record to hamper my chances of getting a job, after all... I'm already five times as likely to be out of work than the majority of the population, and that's without taking into account how ugly I am, my facial piercings, or my refusal to dress smartly for anyone.
Secondly, and mainly, the following extract from that article entertained me:
At around 8:30am, an accessible police van drove the protestors to nearby Charing Cross police station where they are currently being held on a number of charges after repeatedly failing to unblock the road when requested by police.
Why is that funny you may be wondering?
Well, two days before Christmas last year, my friend had her bag stolen from under the table in a pub in the West End. There were three of us, and we suspect it must've been while the "crime victim" was drunkenly demanding a hug from someone off the telly, as that was the only time all afternoon we were all looking away from the table.
Charing Cross was the police station we were directed to to report the crime, so to Charing Cross police station we went.
At Charing Cross police station we were immediately greeted by a flight of steps. There was the universal "wheelchair symbol" with an ambiguous arrow on it at the bottom of the steps... god knows where it was pointing to. This is where I sniff irony in the article - especially as it stipulates that the police van was accessible.
I somehow managed to climb the steps, despite there not even being a handrail (alcohol is remarkably good for the confidence, taking the pain away, and for making you forget that when you fall you'll end up in A&E), and one of my friends carried my chair in.
Something I'm very glad about. Once inside the reception area, there was no going through any doors to anywhere. They wouldn't even let us pee, despite the length of time they made us wait while the computer generated a crime reference number.
The article on DAN infers that Charing Cross, surely, has access for Crippled Criminals (wouldn't that be an excellent name for a rap group?). Maybe that's where the ambiguous sign was pointing? Straight to the cells?
"No, I don't need a lawyer, I haven't done anything. No, please don't strip search me. There are no drugs up my bum. No, really... I only wanted to report that my cashcard was stolen. No, please......"
Firstly, it served to remind me that the Disability Rights movement hasn't died, as they've been much quieter over the last few years. Possibly a good thing, as if they'd been as vocal during my student days as they were when I was in my early teens and stuck in Cambridge... I'd almost certainly have been charged with a string of civil disobedience offences by now. Yes, it would make me seem "interesting", but, it's not like I need a criminal record to hamper my chances of getting a job, after all... I'm already five times as likely to be out of work than the majority of the population, and that's without taking into account how ugly I am, my facial piercings, or my refusal to dress smartly for anyone.
Secondly, and mainly, the following extract from that article entertained me:
At around 8:30am, an accessible police van drove the protestors to nearby Charing Cross police station where they are currently being held on a number of charges after repeatedly failing to unblock the road when requested by police.
Why is that funny you may be wondering?
Well, two days before Christmas last year, my friend had her bag stolen from under the table in a pub in the West End. There were three of us, and we suspect it must've been while the "crime victim" was drunkenly demanding a hug from someone off the telly, as that was the only time all afternoon we were all looking away from the table.
Charing Cross was the police station we were directed to to report the crime, so to Charing Cross police station we went.
At Charing Cross police station we were immediately greeted by a flight of steps. There was the universal "wheelchair symbol" with an ambiguous arrow on it at the bottom of the steps... god knows where it was pointing to. This is where I sniff irony in the article - especially as it stipulates that the police van was accessible.
I somehow managed to climb the steps, despite there not even being a handrail (alcohol is remarkably good for the confidence, taking the pain away, and for making you forget that when you fall you'll end up in A&E), and one of my friends carried my chair in.
Something I'm very glad about. Once inside the reception area, there was no going through any doors to anywhere. They wouldn't even let us pee, despite the length of time they made us wait while the computer generated a crime reference number.
The article on DAN infers that Charing Cross, surely, has access for Crippled Criminals (wouldn't that be an excellent name for a rap group?). Maybe that's where the ambiguous sign was pointing? Straight to the cells?
"No, I don't need a lawyer, I haven't done anything. No, please don't strip search me. There are no drugs up my bum. No, really... I only wanted to report that my cashcard was stolen. No, please......"
10 March 2004
Last night I participated in one of those things which are one of the sadder parts of living in our current age - The Focus Group. By this I do not mean I was involved in some staring contest, and neither am I referring to FOCUS the charity.
On Sunday afternoon, I was participating in my weekly(ish) shop at my local supermarket. Whilst picking up some vegetarian faux-bacon in the freezer section I was accosted by a middle-aged gentleman, brandishing a clipboard.
"Are you a vegetarian?"
"Yes"
"Would you like to go to a Cutomer Question Time on Tuesday at the hotel around the corner to talk to bigwigs from [insert non-specific name of supermarket here] about vegetarian frozen food in this store. You get £15 in store vouchers for turning up, free tea, coffee and biscuits throughout the session and either a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates at the end for participating"
"OK"
"Can I take your address and telephone number please?"
Now, call me naive and slightly innocent... but I figured this was a safe thing to do. After all, if he was a dodgy man with a fetish for vegetarians trying to lure women back to his hotel room, surely security would've noticed? And his clipboard looked well used and a bit tatty. This could either indicate it had been well used by the supermarket in attracting customers to question times before, or he was very experienced in his seduction of vegetarians.
Either way, I divulged my details.
I had planned to go to Comedy Camp last night, but I was offered a choice: spend £7 plus drinks on a night out, or earn £15 plus caffeine and alcohol. Being terminally financially challenged with a caffeine problem and a propensity towards vast alcohol consumption, I chose the latter.
After all - if he had been trying to get me back to his hotel room for seduction purposes... I might of still gotten a free cup of tea from his hotel rooms courtesy stash - and I'm sure if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, I could've convinced myself he was Sharleen Spiteri wearing a strap on.
I have not yet noticed anyone stalking me (after all, why would anyone want to?) and when I arrived at the hotel yesterday evening, a man in a supermarket uniform ticked my name off a list, and handed me my £15 in store vouchers.
All was well.
I'd never really given much of a thought to the type of person with a tendency to say "yes" to attending focus groups. The closest I've ever come before is attending a test screening of About A Boy about a year before it was released, and having to fill in a form afterwards saying "yes, I didn't think the ending was too happy/sad" etc. I think those things are quite horrible as films should be ablout art, not pleasing audiences. But, then, I was pleased to get to see a film for free, and I've still not actually seen the film in it's completed state.
It was quite interesting to note that I was almost certainly the youngest person in the room. Vegetarianism is something you tend to associate with twentysomethings, hippies and lesbians, so it was quite shocking that I was the only person to fulfill all those criteria (I remember once, many, many years ago my swimming coach saying to me "I think you're a closet hippie" which took all the self-restraint I had to not blurb "that's not the only thing I'm closeted about"). I was sitting next to a strange, dull middle aged man who might qualify as a hippie, but, apart from that, the room was full of middle-aged women who all looked and talked like they needed to fill a void in their life with vegetarian sausages (make of that what you will, there was a woman at my table with an actual obsession).
Do you have to be older and slightly bored with life to attend a focus group? Or do all the other twentysomethings, hippies and lesbians have better places to be on a Tuesday night? What does this say about me as a person?
We were asked questions about the kind of products we'd like to see in the vegetarian frozen food ranges, and what kind of promotions we'd like to see.
"Would you like to see promotions linking vegetarian frozen food to other ranges?"
"Yes, 'buy a pack of vegetarian sausages, get a free rack of lamb.'" (is that how lamb is sold? I wouldn't know, I've never bought it.)
I was being honest with my comments like "well, [this supermarket] does much nicer vegetarian curries", and "[that supermarket] does a really nice vegetarian carbonara", which I think most of the other attendees thought made me really rude, as they all seemed to of been programmed to say nothing but "yes".
This has me paranoid. Was I not part of a focus group at all? Was I part of the updating of psychological research? Was I being tested to see if I'd say "yes" just to follow everyone else in a group?
Either way. I don't care. I had 5 cups of tea in 2 hours, I have my wine and I have £15 to spend in store.
To this I say: "Sixty Marlboro Lights, please."
On Sunday afternoon, I was participating in my weekly(ish) shop at my local supermarket. Whilst picking up some vegetarian faux-bacon in the freezer section I was accosted by a middle-aged gentleman, brandishing a clipboard.
"Are you a vegetarian?"
"Yes"
"Would you like to go to a Cutomer Question Time on Tuesday at the hotel around the corner to talk to bigwigs from [insert non-specific name of supermarket here] about vegetarian frozen food in this store. You get £15 in store vouchers for turning up, free tea, coffee and biscuits throughout the session and either a bottle of wine or a box of chocolates at the end for participating"
"OK"
"Can I take your address and telephone number please?"
Now, call me naive and slightly innocent... but I figured this was a safe thing to do. After all, if he was a dodgy man with a fetish for vegetarians trying to lure women back to his hotel room, surely security would've noticed? And his clipboard looked well used and a bit tatty. This could either indicate it had been well used by the supermarket in attracting customers to question times before, or he was very experienced in his seduction of vegetarians.
Either way, I divulged my details.
I had planned to go to Comedy Camp last night, but I was offered a choice: spend £7 plus drinks on a night out, or earn £15 plus caffeine and alcohol. Being terminally financially challenged with a caffeine problem and a propensity towards vast alcohol consumption, I chose the latter.
After all - if he had been trying to get me back to his hotel room for seduction purposes... I might of still gotten a free cup of tea from his hotel rooms courtesy stash - and I'm sure if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, I could've convinced myself he was Sharleen Spiteri wearing a strap on.
I have not yet noticed anyone stalking me (after all, why would anyone want to?) and when I arrived at the hotel yesterday evening, a man in a supermarket uniform ticked my name off a list, and handed me my £15 in store vouchers.
All was well.
I'd never really given much of a thought to the type of person with a tendency to say "yes" to attending focus groups. The closest I've ever come before is attending a test screening of About A Boy about a year before it was released, and having to fill in a form afterwards saying "yes, I didn't think the ending was too happy/sad" etc. I think those things are quite horrible as films should be ablout art, not pleasing audiences. But, then, I was pleased to get to see a film for free, and I've still not actually seen the film in it's completed state.
It was quite interesting to note that I was almost certainly the youngest person in the room. Vegetarianism is something you tend to associate with twentysomethings, hippies and lesbians, so it was quite shocking that I was the only person to fulfill all those criteria (I remember once, many, many years ago my swimming coach saying to me "I think you're a closet hippie" which took all the self-restraint I had to not blurb "that's not the only thing I'm closeted about"). I was sitting next to a strange, dull middle aged man who might qualify as a hippie, but, apart from that, the room was full of middle-aged women who all looked and talked like they needed to fill a void in their life with vegetarian sausages (make of that what you will, there was a woman at my table with an actual obsession).
Do you have to be older and slightly bored with life to attend a focus group? Or do all the other twentysomethings, hippies and lesbians have better places to be on a Tuesday night? What does this say about me as a person?
We were asked questions about the kind of products we'd like to see in the vegetarian frozen food ranges, and what kind of promotions we'd like to see.
"Would you like to see promotions linking vegetarian frozen food to other ranges?"
"Yes, 'buy a pack of vegetarian sausages, get a free rack of lamb.'" (is that how lamb is sold? I wouldn't know, I've never bought it.)
I was being honest with my comments like "well, [this supermarket] does much nicer vegetarian curries", and "[that supermarket] does a really nice vegetarian carbonara", which I think most of the other attendees thought made me really rude, as they all seemed to of been programmed to say nothing but "yes".
This has me paranoid. Was I not part of a focus group at all? Was I part of the updating of psychological research? Was I being tested to see if I'd say "yes" just to follow everyone else in a group?
Either way. I don't care. I had 5 cups of tea in 2 hours, I have my wine and I have £15 to spend in store.
To this I say: "Sixty Marlboro Lights, please."
08 March 2004
04 March 2004
If I had a hammer....
Ellen DeGeneres mocks the song in her Here and Now DVD (which, if you haven't seen it, you must), but it was something I found myself wondering last night.
I decided a while ago that I wanted a shelf above my bed. And last night I purchased one on an excursion to Ikea. A very nice shelf too. For the miniscule price of three English pounds. I wanted to put on this shelf candles, plants and books. I have books and candles, but I found myself buying plants to complete my fantasy shelf. I am taking bets on how long they will last before I kill them. I have never successfully owned plants before (I once tried to own a basil plant. They never need watering and I still managed to kill it through neglect), so this is something of a personal test. A cat will meow at you when it wants food or water. A plant will not. This is where the test lies. Can I take care of something that won't remind me it exists? Or will the big, green, curly thing become posessed by the spirit of all the horror movies I've got on DVD and grow down and strangle me just to draw my attention to it's presence?
I also found myself buying a stool. Of the seating variety, rather than the type a medical professional might ask for a sample of. I bought it so I have something to sit on while cooking and/or washing up. Today I've managed to get away with doing neither, so I'm still very excited about my unused stool.
I enjoy Ikea. Especially the kids section. I always want to bring home the bright purple chest of drawers that looks like it's a fugitive from some fairy tale that was written under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. And, even if you don't find that bit of furniture you were looking for - you can stock up on your pencils.
I came home from Ikea, and searched the whole house. I couldn't find my hammer. I bought it while I was at university and wanted to put a flat-packed bedside table together. I also found it to be useful for periodically banging bits back onto my wheelchair that had fallen off. I also think I inadvertently used it to scare people as I would wander through university clutching it looking pissed off, muttering under my breath, angered about how another bit had fallen off my wheelchair.
The day I bought my hammer, I bought it in Homebase, and then went into Sainsbury's next door to pick up a few things. Between stores I'd put the hammer in my car. Big mistake. In Sainsbury's, the cashier refused to accept my signature as matching the one on my debit card. We waited ages, while the queue steadily grew and people at the back started muttering "I think the woman at the front is trying to use a stolen credit card", for the cashiers supervisor to come and check my signature. She came, she looked, she laughed at the cashier as the signatures quite blatantly matched. Oh, if I'd had a hammer on me.
But last night it was missing. Nowhere.
If I had a hammer - I would have a shelf on my wall, I thought.
If I'd had a hammer last night, I'd probably have a wonky shelf on my wall, as, last night, I was not the owner of a spirit level.
If I had a hammer, I might not of gone to Homebase today, to purchase yet another Homebase Essentials (the Tesco's Value range of the DIY world - a bit like a basic bullet vibrator. Plain, simple, undecorated, and makes DIY easier) hammer and spirit level.
What could I of done with that spare time If I had a hammer? I might of spent it in a cafe, looking sophisticated, reading a book and drinking a coffee. I might of met my dream lady. The conversation might of begun by her asking me if the book was any good as she'd considered reading it, and might of ended up with us making beautiful love, on my bed, beneath the very interesting shelf with books, plants and candles on it. Oh yes, that shelf is going to lure people into my bed. It makes me look trendy and interesting. People will want to be with me. Oh yes. OK, maybe not.
If I'd had a hammer, I'd more likely of been asleep, rather than being in Homebase. But I might of dreamt of a story so brilliant that I'd have to write it down. It might of been such a brilliant story that the writing of it may of been more than a few words on a post-it note on my bedside table - I may of awoken inspired to write a novel in one day. A novel so brilliant that it would make me a world famous author. A novel that would make me so much money that I'd never have to wonder "If I had a hammer" again, because I'd be able to hire people to erect my shelves for me.
If I'd had a hammer, I'd more likely of been sleeping and dreaming of shopping in Sainsbury's with Sharleen Spiteri, discussing whether we should get skimmed or semi-skimmed. Or dreaming that all the bus routes have been changed around Belsize Park, so the Greek Paralympic Swimming Team can't find which bus they want, and George Michael won't let me sing in the music video with the Greek Paralympic Swimming Team because I'm a woman (the feminist in me was so angry when I woke up from that one).
Despite Ellen claiming that when you've got a hammer, you don't hammer as much as you'd think you would - just think about how different your life could be... if only you had a hammer.
Ellen DeGeneres mocks the song in her Here and Now DVD (which, if you haven't seen it, you must), but it was something I found myself wondering last night.
I decided a while ago that I wanted a shelf above my bed. And last night I purchased one on an excursion to Ikea. A very nice shelf too. For the miniscule price of three English pounds. I wanted to put on this shelf candles, plants and books. I have books and candles, but I found myself buying plants to complete my fantasy shelf. I am taking bets on how long they will last before I kill them. I have never successfully owned plants before (I once tried to own a basil plant. They never need watering and I still managed to kill it through neglect), so this is something of a personal test. A cat will meow at you when it wants food or water. A plant will not. This is where the test lies. Can I take care of something that won't remind me it exists? Or will the big, green, curly thing become posessed by the spirit of all the horror movies I've got on DVD and grow down and strangle me just to draw my attention to it's presence?
I also found myself buying a stool. Of the seating variety, rather than the type a medical professional might ask for a sample of. I bought it so I have something to sit on while cooking and/or washing up. Today I've managed to get away with doing neither, so I'm still very excited about my unused stool.
I enjoy Ikea. Especially the kids section. I always want to bring home the bright purple chest of drawers that looks like it's a fugitive from some fairy tale that was written under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs. And, even if you don't find that bit of furniture you were looking for - you can stock up on your pencils.
I came home from Ikea, and searched the whole house. I couldn't find my hammer. I bought it while I was at university and wanted to put a flat-packed bedside table together. I also found it to be useful for periodically banging bits back onto my wheelchair that had fallen off. I also think I inadvertently used it to scare people as I would wander through university clutching it looking pissed off, muttering under my breath, angered about how another bit had fallen off my wheelchair.
The day I bought my hammer, I bought it in Homebase, and then went into Sainsbury's next door to pick up a few things. Between stores I'd put the hammer in my car. Big mistake. In Sainsbury's, the cashier refused to accept my signature as matching the one on my debit card. We waited ages, while the queue steadily grew and people at the back started muttering "I think the woman at the front is trying to use a stolen credit card", for the cashiers supervisor to come and check my signature. She came, she looked, she laughed at the cashier as the signatures quite blatantly matched. Oh, if I'd had a hammer on me.
But last night it was missing. Nowhere.
If I had a hammer - I would have a shelf on my wall, I thought.
If I'd had a hammer last night, I'd probably have a wonky shelf on my wall, as, last night, I was not the owner of a spirit level.
If I had a hammer, I might not of gone to Homebase today, to purchase yet another Homebase Essentials (the Tesco's Value range of the DIY world - a bit like a basic bullet vibrator. Plain, simple, undecorated, and makes DIY easier) hammer and spirit level.
What could I of done with that spare time If I had a hammer? I might of spent it in a cafe, looking sophisticated, reading a book and drinking a coffee. I might of met my dream lady. The conversation might of begun by her asking me if the book was any good as she'd considered reading it, and might of ended up with us making beautiful love, on my bed, beneath the very interesting shelf with books, plants and candles on it. Oh yes, that shelf is going to lure people into my bed. It makes me look trendy and interesting. People will want to be with me. Oh yes. OK, maybe not.
If I'd had a hammer, I'd more likely of been asleep, rather than being in Homebase. But I might of dreamt of a story so brilliant that I'd have to write it down. It might of been such a brilliant story that the writing of it may of been more than a few words on a post-it note on my bedside table - I may of awoken inspired to write a novel in one day. A novel so brilliant that it would make me a world famous author. A novel that would make me so much money that I'd never have to wonder "If I had a hammer" again, because I'd be able to hire people to erect my shelves for me.
If I'd had a hammer, I'd more likely of been sleeping and dreaming of shopping in Sainsbury's with Sharleen Spiteri, discussing whether we should get skimmed or semi-skimmed. Or dreaming that all the bus routes have been changed around Belsize Park, so the Greek Paralympic Swimming Team can't find which bus they want, and George Michael won't let me sing in the music video with the Greek Paralympic Swimming Team because I'm a woman (the feminist in me was so angry when I woke up from that one).
Despite Ellen claiming that when you've got a hammer, you don't hammer as much as you'd think you would - just think about how different your life could be... if only you had a hammer.
01 March 2004
I'm not quite sure why my last blog post appeared twice, or why one of them wouldn't actually go away when I deleted it (deleting it is no longer an option apparently. Something in cyberspace thinks it's already gone). Repetition can be entertaining. Not in this case, and I apologise for it.
A friend of mine has a very vicious pussy, as I discovered this afternoon. In fact, I'm fortunate that human's have a blinking instinct, or I may of ended up spending the best part of today in the A&E at Moorfields Eye Hospital. She was perfectly content with being stroked and cooed over, until I said her name. At which point she turned around and saw my face. A sight, clearly so hideous, that she was unable to bear it and so sank her claws into the area around my left eye as punishment for looking so monstrous.
Last night my friend and I went out for dinner. We had Mexican which excited me immensly, as I adore Mexican food, but it's really hard to find over here... and even harder to find Mexican food worth eating. It was actually nice. In fact, I'd go so far to say that it was the nicest Mexican food I've ever had in the UK. Shame about the cutlery though. It was cheap and nasty (a little bit like me) and you could taste the metal, which can actually really ruin a meal.
We had an orgasm fight in the restaurant. Quite normal behaviour for a Saturday night in Clapham, clearly, as no-one batted an eyelid. I even managed to get orgasm in her eye which I thought was a quite impressive aim.
Perhaps we'd be safe if we all went through life wearing swimming goggles? Perhaps not a suitable option for those with eyebrow piercings. When I swim I do like like I have an aerial sticking out of my head.
If I don't tell them, they will never know it is really an aerial
Which reminds me, I really should phone home...
A friend of mine has a very vicious pussy, as I discovered this afternoon. In fact, I'm fortunate that human's have a blinking instinct, or I may of ended up spending the best part of today in the A&E at Moorfields Eye Hospital. She was perfectly content with being stroked and cooed over, until I said her name. At which point she turned around and saw my face. A sight, clearly so hideous, that she was unable to bear it and so sank her claws into the area around my left eye as punishment for looking so monstrous.
Last night my friend and I went out for dinner. We had Mexican which excited me immensly, as I adore Mexican food, but it's really hard to find over here... and even harder to find Mexican food worth eating. It was actually nice. In fact, I'd go so far to say that it was the nicest Mexican food I've ever had in the UK. Shame about the cutlery though. It was cheap and nasty (a little bit like me) and you could taste the metal, which can actually really ruin a meal.
We had an orgasm fight in the restaurant. Quite normal behaviour for a Saturday night in Clapham, clearly, as no-one batted an eyelid. I even managed to get orgasm in her eye which I thought was a quite impressive aim.
Perhaps we'd be safe if we all went through life wearing swimming goggles? Perhaps not a suitable option for those with eyebrow piercings. When I swim I do like like I have an aerial sticking out of my head.
If I don't tell them, they will never know it is really an aerial
Which reminds me, I really should phone home...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
