Ralph the Wonder Llama

On the face of it, freecycle is A Good Thing. You have stuff you don’t want, other people who want it take it off your hands, none of that tedious mucking about with car boot sales, everyone’s happy.

Everyone except me, that is. Why? Well, the thing I can’t handle is having to choose who gets the thing I’m giving away. I feel guilty about all the people who don’t get it, especially if one of them later seems more ‘worthy’ than the others. Should the firs person to respond get it? Maybe, but in this instance (I was getting rid of my old PS1 console and kit – and Donald, Dave, before you say anything I promised your wives I wouldn’t tell you…) it turned out that they couldn’t pick it up till the weekend, and I wanted rid of it today before I go away. So then I get several other requests and I decide to wait till morning to see what turns up. Sure enough, one very worthy candidate appears – the mum of a games software student who couldn’t afford consoles for her son when he was a kid, and who is now trying to catch up in terms of what other people have had as formative experiences to inform his work. Sounds great, so I tell her she can have it if she can pick it up today.

I don’t hear back this morning. By this afternoon someone’s offered to pick it up there and then, so I tell him he can have it. Five minutes after he’s picked it up she replies telling me she’s thrilled and so will her son be, and sure she can pick it up this evening. And now I feel really quite depressed by the whole thing – I feel like I’ve done it completely wrong. I sent a grovelling apology but I still feel really awful about it. I feel like I deserve to be struck by lightning or something.

I almost wish I’d chucked it in the skip

Just a quick hello. We had a nice big thunderstorm last night and another one this afternoon. It’s just stopped raining after several hours, and it’s nice and cool and damp. Lovely.

Last night at about 4 am there was an earthquake, the second time in two months that I’ve been flat on my back in bed and felt the earth move, so things are clearly looking up. This was a proper good one too, with general shakiness and stuff clattering about on the fireplace.

I finished my malaria tablets this morning, so just have a few of the antibiotics and painkillers left to go, and hopefully I should be cured. I’ve had three decent nights in a row now and am feeling much improved, if still a bit whacked generally. Distinctly healthier though, I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear. The thought that’s stayed with me over the past few days is that, while this is a disease that affects and indeed still kills so many people worldwide every year, I’ve been treated with six tablets in three days at a cost of something like £2.50. I know that’s a lot more money to some than it is to me, but it puts into perspective what the governments of the world spend their money on. There are some strange priorities out there.

Later I shall exchange one form of pain for another by watching (satellite reception permitting) Liverpool play Chelski, in the company of a long-serving Chavs fan who’s staying here just now. Tara has threatened to call the police. I suspect, given the importance of a win to both sides, that we’ll end up with a tedious 0-0 draw.

Hopefully back to work tomorrow. I’ve lost a fair bit of time to illness, but hey, what can one do? I have a sick note, after all.

So here I am in Edinburgh airport departure lounge waiting for the 20:55 flight to Stansted. Except it’s been delayed. Till ten past midnight. So I’ll get there, if I’m lucky, sometime around half one, maybe, if I’m lucky, get into my not-very-cheap-at-all hotel at 2am, get around four hours sleep and then get up and get on another flight. Go with the flow, eh? Was there some karma I missed here somewhere or what?

The flight to Ancona is with Ryanair, which was the one I was dreading – but it can’t get any worse than this, surely? Ah well. I suppose I’m going to have to get used to this…

On the up side, I decided to take advantage of BA’s sale and yesterday bought myself a fairly cheap ticket to India between Jan 12 and Mar 23, so that’s one thing sorted out, and should at least scare the living daylights out of me keep me busy for a while.

Hope to eventually make it to Italy sometime in the next 24 hours, and I’ll be offline till I get back. See you then.

…fuck it.

I’ve been quiet for a while now, if anyone’s still paying attention. To be honest I haven’t had a lot worth saying. Anyone out there thinking to themselves “what’s new?” can, of course, sod right off. You may be right, but it’s my house, my rules. So. [Get on with it! - Pythonesque Ed.]

So anyway. You know me, right? I’ve been saving like a loony for the last few years, all in the name of the now discredited plan. This has tended to involve working a lot, not taking a lot of time off, and not spending much of the money I’ve been earning. And I wasn’t planning on taking any time off until December when I finish the job, of course. But things have been such of late that even I have recognised that if I don’t take a break, even so close to the end, that I’m going to make myself properly ill. I’ve become torn and frayed and started to worry even myself, so much so that this week I seriously started thinking about a holiday.

But what to do? Where to go? Well, after looking at this (somewhere I’ve long wanted to go), and looking at this (suggested artfully by Jan) I decided I needed something more healing than just a regular holiday. Petra has been there a long time, and it’ll still be there in a little while longer. Then I thought of this book that the Strachans bought me a few weeks ago (which I wish I’d read a year ago…the chapter on plans is a doozy…) and remembered that the author and his wife run week-long retreats from their home in the hills near Ancona, so I had a look at that. It spoke to me more than anything else had done, so that’s where I’m going between 10 and 17 September. At worst it’ll be a good break somewhere quiet and beautiful and away from here, and who knows but that I might actually learn something useful. It’s costing a fortune if you factor in the lost income, but I don’t care. The Plan is dead, and the budgeting with it, and in any case I know deep down that I badly need this right now. For once I’m going to truly indulge myself and try not to feel guilty about it.

So that now means Cropredy next week, then three-and-a-half weeks until the holiday, then ten more weeks of work. It seems more bearable, and I feel a bit better just for having booked this break. It’s a hole in the budget, sure. And I don’t intend to skimp on anything while I’m there, either. But you know what?

Fuck it.

Hello. Remember me? There is much catching up to do, and I’ve been meaning to do it this week. However, I also thought I’d have some spare time to myself this week in which to do said catching up. Ho ho. How silly of me. For work has been a complete nightmare for the last week or three, and I have no brain left, let alone energy. I shall try to make amends this weekend sometime, fair wind and good fortune allowing. Or more likely foul weather allowing, because otherwise I’m likely to spend at least some of it watching the cricket. And packing for next week’s trip. And shopping in preparation for next week’s trip. And…you get the idea. I’ve got to hunt haggis. ‘Nuff said.

In the meantime, I leave you with the best subject line from my spam mailbox for some considerable time. Very good. Most inventive.

What heresy is this? I won’t have it. Surely if whatever supreme being’s RSS feed (Godcast?) you may or may not subscribe to had meant us to worry about such things, s/he/it would have sent some form of messiah to warn us all of the error of our ways, spreading their gospel via some populist broadcasting medium like, say, reality TV.

Oh wait. Hang on a minute…

In these straitened times it’s always good to find new ways to save a few quid. After all, we have to keep the wolves from the door, eh? Especially we llamas. Wolves are not our favourite house-guests, for reasons that ought to be obvious.

Anyway. I digress. One way to economise is to get rid of one’s telly. This would save on tv licence fees (for those of us that actually pay them…), electricity, and doubtless some time, too. Ah, but Ralph, I hear you cry (or is that the wolves again?), what if you actually want to watch some tv? No problem. For you see, the size of television now being bought by Joe Public has reached such epic proportions that it is no longer strictly necessary to have one in one’s own flat. As evidence, I present you with Exhibit A, the flat across the street’s new tv:

which is, as one of my favourite Scottish expressions has it, the size of nonsense. Bear in mind that this picture was taken from my lounge window, across the street, and to the other end of their lounge, a distance that must be not less than 80 feet. The picture is as clear as you like – almost the same, in fact, as looking at my own. Now of course, there are drawbacks – I’d have to go across and ring their buzzer to get the channel changed, and they don’t appear to subscribe to sky sports, but that apart, it’s perfect.

As long as they don’t close their curtains, that is. Then again, they seem to have hocked their curtains and lampshades to pay for the telly…

Words of advice I learned – or thought I’d learned – many years ago when I was young. Yet, judging by today’s events, not learned well enough. A sign of the times, some might say, but I back you difficer – it’s always been this way, more or less. Say the wrong thing, to the wrong people, at the wrong time, and you’re in trouble. The more so if you’re a puny, specky so-and-so who couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag. How To Minimise Beatings 101: Keep Your Mouth Shut.

And so it was that I resat this lesson today when, on the way home, walking down a busy street, one of a bunch of four or five yoofs walked straight into me and, instead of saying nothing, I gave him an earful – being in a bad mood about financial meltdown and skids being placed under The Plan™ and all. Mistake. Ten yards further down the street, I get a punch round the side of the head from behind (the bravery level hasn’t changed either…) that knocks me sideways a bit, glasses to the floor, the usual, as the assailant runs away again and, at a distance, his associates tell me how lucky I ought to consider myself. Perhaps: a punch hurts less than a knife I’d warrant.

So I’m left feeling sore in the rear lower cheekbone department, and extremely stupid indeed. The sense of injustice/controlling temper index is going to have to change at last, and maybe this is the price of an education. Don’t feel sorry for me: I reckon I brought it on myself – I know very well the sort of world I live in. I would say don’t try this at home, but you’re all a lot more sensible than me anyway. In theory I’ve always known better than this. As much as I resent the idea of giving in and taking it, I’d rather not be in this pain either, with an ice pack on my face and hoping (a) that nothing’s broken and (b) that I don’t run into them on a less crowded street. I’ve always wondered which is weaker – speak up or shut up. But I know which one hurts less.

[EDIT]: I had an x-ray on Sunday as my face went numb and had swollen, but luckily it appears that nothing is broken. Phew. Still a bit sore and a bit painful to bite, but hopefully now just a matter of time to heal and a bit of peace and quiet.

Not, perhaps, what you might be thinking. However, in a sort of Coals to Newcastle sort of way it struck me as faintly ironic to learn that the Indian Consulate has followed an apparent trend of outsourcing their visa processing, in their case to vfs global. Nothing inherently wrong with that – now one can fill in the forms online (which are confusing and badly explained, but still) and even pay in advance, theoretically reducing the time spent in the queue. Theoretically. Claire had to wait for two hours for her appointment, and it, being the busier London, was timed.

This morning, having done all this, and even booked my ‘appointment’ – a specific day, rather than a time – I went along to the visa centre for opening time at 08:30. When I asked the security guy about the appointment system he said “Oh, we see anyone at any time, it doesn’t matter.” Hmm. Apparently the online system has somewhat over-reached reality. Never mind, I was first in line. I had neglected to complete one or two details that somehow hadn’t quite made it from the online record onto the printed version to date and sign, but never mind that either.

“You are coming here to collect?”

“Yes. Can I pick it up this afternoon?”

“Oh no, it will be 2-3 working days. Minimum. You can track your application online with this number.”, the officer said, handing me one third of the receipt.

I’ll be back in a week, then. The Consulate returned them the same afternoon. Still, it’s at least good to know that this shiny new service with all its online efficiency is such good value for money. Oh, except that this year the visa is nearly 25% more expensive than last, having added on the outsourcing company’s fee.

La, and indeed, la.

Which is exactly the sort of thing we need to know. Do people want fire that can be inserted nasally?

Thus spake the Good Book (Hitch-Hikers of course) in a scene where Ford Prefect derides the marketing faction of the Golgafrincham Ark B survivors on early Earth Mk 2 when they discuss their prevarications over how to invent fire. Quite.

But wtf am I on about? Well, today I’ve had the day off. I’ve had the day off because I had to go to the hospital to have a tube stuck up my nose (no, there are no pictures, don’t be stupid) for 24 hours and I didn’t fancy scaring my colleagues (though one or two of them surely deserve it…). It’s not been a pleasant experience. I am wired to a machine that measures acidity and every time I swallow the tube jars against the inside of my nose and throat. Eating is not nice at all. I had the promise of the second one-day international between england and nz to look forward to, but the weather has played havoc with that and it’s now a somewhat farcical 29-28 overs a side.

So anyway I thought I ought to eat, however unpleasant it is, and I decided to treat myself to a pizza delivery from la favorita. I can’t wait to see the delivery operative’s face when TubeFace opens the door Still, some small amusement was afforded by their web site, at the point where one confirms one’s order:

Needless to say, I ordered mine without a glutton, thanks very much. Otherwise I’d never get any myself, would I?

Back to the RI in the morning to have this damnable device removed. You’ll have to drag me to a hospital the next time, I swear.