Road Kill

God updating your blog lapses when you’re in the middle of moving and you don’t have proper access to the internet. We still don’t, but we are in our new flat, hurrah! Last Wednesday was a bit hectic since our van men were an hour and a half late due to getting an accident on the way (bodes well). They were also not as good as the first guy who moved me and seemed to take issue with having to actually pick stuff up. Um…that’s your job guys. Still, we got in eventually and then Max had to go back to work and I attempted to put the place in order. It’s an ongoing process, but we have a wardrobe now, another hurrah!

I took Friday off work to get stuff done and also because I was headed to a roller derby boot camp. My afternoon did not go to plan as I was rudely knocked down by a cyclist and ended up sitting in the back of an ambulance for a bit. I did not get flashing lights though as it didn’t go anywhere. I’d like it noted that I WAS COMPLETELY IN THE RIGHT! I was crossing the road on the green man like a good girl and he was coming the wrong way down a one way street. I would generally look both ways before crossing but on a green man on a one way I didn’t. He yelled but was going so fast I didn’t have time to do anything before he smacked into me and I hit the floor. Hard. With my right elbow. I’d just been to pick up some bits for the flat and can only assume the oven tins took the brunt of the hit on my left side as I don’t seem to be hurt there, and I don’t think I hit my head.

I burst into tears from the shock but people were very nice and helped me out of the street and got me some water. The cyclist stopped too but didn’t seem that bothered honestly, and then police came, possibly community support officers I dunno. They were taking all our statements and then cyclist sped off, with one officer in pursuit, but he got away. I find this amusing now, but not so much then.

Initially I said I didn’t need an ambulance but in the end agreed to be looked over, and they were very nice too and I am fine just bruised and shaken. I still went to the boot camp and only fell on my elbow once. I would write more about it but since the majority of what I have to say is negative I should keep my mouth shut, lest I be breaking any roller derby rules. The good things were mainly getting to hang out with my fellow Rec Leaguers and laugh a lot (and moan about the boot camp) and also one brilliant lesson that spread over the two days and was really helpful, about default strategy and how to always be useful on the track.

In other derby news I can now register my skate name. If only I had one.

Spot the Difference

Pajiba had a post the other day about movie posters being different in other countries. I find it interesting to see the subtle (and maybe not so subtle) differences that can be made, and whether it actually does mean anything at all or if it’s just several companies interpreting a brief. But I have noticed my own movie poster difference in the last few days, and it’s been bugging me to death. Mostly because the change is unnecessary, but also because it is butchering the language.

Exhibit A:

The poster for Horrible Bosses you get if you Google ‘Horrible Bosses Poster’. I can only assume this is the US version, or main version. It’s fine, it fits with the other posters for the film. Can’t see why it’d need to be altered.

Exhibit B:

Sorry for the quality, it was taken hastily as I waited for the tube this morning, and I haven’t been able to find a version online. So, why the change? And why did anyone think it was necessary to write ‘sex-crazed nympho’? Is writing nympho not enough? Does it not imply sex-crazed already; isn’t that kind of the definition? If someone felt a change was needed could they not have changed the sex-crazed bit and added something else that wasn’t redundant?

I really do not get this. Maneater is hardly a weird word. We’ve come across it here. Nelly Furtado assaulted us with a song about one for months. We wouldn’t look at the original and go ‘I’m not sure what they’re trying to get across here.’

And now I’ve spent far too much time considering it, (and promoting a film I have no real interest in seeing) and I’ll get no answers.

More Than Meets the Eye

I have just realised that I didn’t post any pics of my holiday in Egypt. I don’t mean ones of the beach or our lovely hotel, oh no. I mean the pics of the towel animals left for us daily on our return to the room. How could I forget? So here they are. You’re welcome.

The first of them, quite innocent and very thoughtful, a swan in a heart with rose petals. Awww.

But the next day we came back to this…the Man/Rabbit. I appreciate the time taken to draw the face on toilet paper, but it could be seen as bit threatening, like a horse head in your bed. Were we not tipping enough?

After the man/rabbit, this is my favourite. A swan (with arms) relaxes in bed with something to read, the TV remote next to it in case it needs something else to entertain it. The telly was on when we got back to the room…

Yoga swan?

The rest were more variations of swan/flower petals. None of them were repeated during our stay, so I wonder how many they are taught before you get one you’ve seen already. And how long does it take to perfect them? I loved them anyway. I am disappointed that there are no towel animals awaiting me when I come home from work.

Frickin Volcanoes

Last Wednesday I flew up to Glasgow for a work conference where I would be selling books. I flew because it was cheaper (which shocks me) and quicker than getting the train. Or it would be quicker if a volcano didn’t erupt and ground all flights in your country meaning you might be trapped in Glasgow for the foreseeable future. I mean, a volcano? Honestly, what are the odds? (This is a rhetorical question, should you actually happen to know the odds.) I didn’t even know about it until Friday morning, not having access to the internet and having only four TV channels in my room. Yes, I could have complained but I had DVDs and so was mostly fine, until I was faced with ‘The Day The Skies Stood Still’ on the front of the Metro paper Friday morning. What? I spent the rest of that day frantically trying to find out information and whether my flight was still on or how I would get back otherwise. I was expecting a mad rush on train tickets and, though Glasgow was very lovely, I really wanted to get home.

In the end it was fine though. I managed to book myself on a train, once I knew my flight was indeed never going to take off. I do like BA’s text they send you, which basically says ‘Your flight has been cancelled. Soz.’ And then I spent much of Saturday wanting to pack up the books and being annoyed by people wanting to buy things, so I could leave early and make sure I would get on my train. (I had a ten minute window at Edinburgh and that was just too nerve wracking for me.) I feel like this is nature’s way of saying ‘Ha! Carbon footprint ner ner ner.’ Yes, I should have just got the train in the first place. I’ll never do it again. Maybe.

The book fair was very slow. The volcano meant about 100 people didn’t make it, but I know we did better than some of the other publishers, who didn’t sell anything. The first day was mainly registration and no tea or coffee on. Refreshments are key at these sort of things, and I was positioned next to them, which is good in that you get loads of people storming past to get to them, and so good foot traffic. But then you also get people with mugs of hot liquid and grubby, greasy hands, standing pawing your books and spilling on them. And then using your table as a place to discard their leftovers. Honestly, some people.

Anyway, I am aware that I am very lucky, as I at least had the option of the train, and could stay on at the hotel at work’s expense if I needed to. A lot of people are stranded all over the place with no idea when they’ll be home, and with no money for hotels etc. It must be awful. Half our office is elsewhere at the moment. Two colleagues are in the US, having gone last week for the sales conference, and won’t be back til Wednesday at the earliest. Another was on holiday in Morocco, not sure when he’ll be back. But he’s quite happily wining and dining Richard Branson’s mother. Because of course he is. Also, it’s the London Book Fair this week, which will likely be very quiet, and as none of the US folk are coming over we’ll have to sort that.

We could all do with this chap to ferry people about, but it seems he’s too busy listening to bagpipes to offer assistance. Lazy.

Valentine’s Day is Stupid

It’s stupid when you’re with someone, and it’s stupid when you’re not. There, I have said so. My main gripe with it today is not about it mainly being a ploy for us to spend money ‘in the name of love’, but some other hideous aspects of it that have right wound me up. Namely, that women are manipulative shrews who say no when they mean yes, who set traps to make their partners feel bad. Women are just as much to blame for this, as shown by this delightful email conversation I had earlier:

Max: The girls at work reckon that by you saying you don’t want any fuss on Valentines day that you want lots of things done. Is this the case?

Me: No. Really no. Although a card would be nice.

Max: They still think you’re lying.

Me: Why would I lie? For goodness sake. Do you think I’m lying? Why are you talking about this anyway?

Max: The girls badgered me about what I was doing for you on valentines day. I said you didn’t want anything which made them mock me for my inability to read women. I protested “You don’t know Carrie, if I go overboard she’ll go into the fetus position and sob. She just wants a card.”

“SHE’S LYING!” They proclaimed. And mocked me more for being a tool.

So I emailed you and relayed your thoughts.

They told me you were playing hard to get.

I told them I’d known you for the best part of the decade and you weren’t like other women!* I don’t think you’re lying but they’re trying to talk me into it.

Me: Oh ok you got me, I want to show up at your door on Sunday and have you blindfold me and lead me into the house, which when you remove my blindfold has been decorated with scattered rose petals leading into the kitchen where there is an amazing candlelit meal awaiting me.

Or, you know, we could have pizza.

Max: They reckon I should take you to Paris for the weekend.

Me: AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGH. Also, I hate Paris.

Other women are my enemy!!! (OK, not all women, just one type. I like other women really.) And this is a stupid, stupid day. It’s not supposed to be fraught with worrying over what someone’s going to do for you. Is it? I thought it was mainly about chocolate… And it shouldn’t be about playing games. What, I’m saying, no, no, don’t do anything, and then when he doesn’t do anything I’m going to pitch a fit? That is also stupid.

And then there’s Pizza Express sending out flyers saying ‘But she said don’t make a fuss for Valentine’s’. ‘And you believed her?’ Which adds to this whole thing but also, Pizza Express? Hardly making a fuss now, is it? You fail on both counts PE!

GAH! Because women can’t possibly ever say what they mean, and just want to make men feel bad. It is all a vast conspiracy. Never trust what we say men out there, we’re just setting you up and will add it to the list we keep in our heads of all the ways you suck. Or something. I don’t know what it is we do.

Damn it. I don’t want to be against Valentine’s Day in general. I just don’t want to have to feel obligated to do something AMAZING and ROMANTIC. I don’t want to play games of one-upmanship. Really I just want to eat chocolate. Is that too much to ask?!

*I do apologise here for his generalisation of all women.

Walking in a Winter Horrorland

I am steadily sinking into a deep hatred of winter. It’s dark, cold and wet. My eczema has flared up, my scalp is dry and flaky meaning wearing anything black is a hazard, and I live in black for the most part. Christmas is fast approaching and I am in deep denial about it and have no idea what to get people. I need some Christmas cheer! Where’s an angel when you need them? Even that annoying one from It’s a Wonderful Life would do.

But there are some good things about the season, one of which is the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland, where they put up lots of stalls to sell you Christmas tat and rides that have tenuous connections to the festive season at best. Last year it was the Wild West ride which had been turned into a budget reindeer race by sticking headbands with antlers on the horses. This time there was a beer garden hall of mirrors ride, which had a (rather terrifying) animatronic man/woman holding its belly and laughing, moving back and forth. They had stuck a Father Christmas outfit on it and a beard which had slipped down its neck, but left the shoes and socks as they were. A little girl was crying her eyes out next to it.

This ‘Santa’ found life very amusing, but the laughter was extremely unsettling. You would not want this person crawling down your chimney at night and leaving you a surprise. Trust me.

And his/her feet. They really went all out with the costume.

Or there was the Christmas dinosaur, and the Christmas pirate ride (which didn’t tell you exactly what was in it, but a grown woman was weeping when she came out so god knows. We were tempted to go in, but for four quid each we passed). My fave though was the ghost train, which had two dead bodies hanging from gallows (not all that child friendly if you ask me), but they’d hung a little green bell from the gallows too. So that made it ok. And in theme.

I did very much enjoy wandering around in the rain, which wasn’t too awful, but I did wonder at the people ice skating and winced when they fell and created a tidal wave of water with their bodies. It looked miserable. But we walked around with our hoods up drinking soup and laughing our heads off at the rides while being smacked in the face with my umbrella. I gave up after a while. Later we went to see the ‘Palace of Grand Illusion’ (by day it’s the circus). Not especially grand I must say. There’s a reason the guy is in a tent in Hyde Park and not, say, Derren Brown. He had no charisma whatsoever. He did some good tricks (just where did that woman come from?!) but it was all so half-assed in the presentation it kinda ruined it. His lovely assistants were bordering on indecent with their asses on show.

Maybe I should go back when it’s not raining (is that likely to be sometime soon?) and see if I can recapture the Christmas spirit? Or at least have an amusing evening of sarcasm and mockery.

Gassy Elephants

My (relatively) new upstairs neighbours have got to be the most heavy footed people I have ever encountered. I think they are in fact elephants in disguise, by day they wear cleverly adapted human suits but come 10/11 pm (it is always around this time) they remove said suits and thunder about. Or they are serial killers luring poor unsuspecting people into their home and performing a nightly ritual, because a lot of the time it does sound like a body hitting the floor from a great height…not that I know what that sounds like really. But what can they be doing? Moving furniture, are they feng shui obsessives? Are they dancing? Because it cannot just be them walking about, it is crazy thuds constantly. I have met the woman once, and she’s a tiny wee person. so what gives?

For the past two weeks or so British Gas have been calling me regularly, sometimes two or three times a day. They don’t leave a message (I Googled the number so knew who it was) and since I had no real need to talk to them I have ignored them. I finally caved today and so we had this amusing conversation:

Very enthusiastic British Gas person: Hello Ms My-Last-Name! How are you today? I hope you are very well!
Me: I’m fine thanks.
BG: Good good. Have you got time to talk to me today?
Me: Not really no, I am at work.
BG: Not to worry I will call back another time.
Me: (Oh god no please don’t) Can you tell me what it’s about?
BG: Why yes I can! I was just hoping to let you know the ways in which you could save money by transferring to British Gas from your current provider.
Me: British Gas is my current provider.
BG: (Stunned silence for a few seconds) Oh…are you sure?
Me: Yes.
BG: Have you just switched over?
Me: No.
BG; Oh…how long have you been with us?
Me: Three years.
BG: Oh…right then. (Uncomfortable laugh) I will update your records. Have a lovely day!

Honestly.

I Hear You Knocking But You Can’t Come In

I suffer from migraines. Have I said before that I get migraines? I do tend to repeat myself. Well on Friday I had a doozy.  I had been out for dinner with one set of friends and was supposed to meet others for drinks, when I hit a brick wall tiredness-wise, and since I was meeting everyone for breakfast the next day I thought I’d just go home and go to bed early. This was a good call. The bus terminated before my stop, always annoying, but I could deal with a 20 min walk. Except…uh oh…I have a blind spot in my vision. It’s from the car lights right? It’s not a migraine. No way it would be a migraine right now…oh yeah, shit, it is. And so I stumbled home like a blind person, my right arm sort of out in front of me, so I didn’t run into anything. It’s such a strange experience, these flashing lights going off, obscuring your vision. It’s also scary, seeing as people would appear in front of me almost out of nowhere and startle me. Plus, crossing the road was interesting. Is there a car? I can’t tell you how close I came to walking under a bus. I hugged the wall mostly. I must have looked like I was drunk. Anyway, I got home in one piece and fell into bed, and after fighting with the smoke alarm which was making stupid beeping noises, I slept the headache away. Sleep is basically the only thing that helps, although Excedrin Migraine pills are good too.

I can remember the first time I had a migraine. I was maybe 15, and in history class. I remember getting the aura, but not knowing that’s what it was, and then later feeling sick, and then the pain. Oh. My. God. What the hell was this? I had never felt a headache like it. After that they showed up pretty regularly, at one point at least once a month, sometimes I’d get a cluster of them within a few days. Just when I’d think I was getting over it I’d get the hideous squiggly lines across my eyes and go shut my self in a dark room in the hopes I could sleep it off.

And then there was the second wave a migraines. The new kind. During my second year of university, when I was in America, I woke up one morning and threw up. And threw up…and on and on, and my head was killing me. My roommate was kind enough to take me to the medical centre, where a nurse stuck a needle in my hip with stuff to stop me vomiting, or maybe just to take my mind off the pain because again: Oh. My. God. That hurt. Needles in hips? EVIL. But I did stop being sick, and they did give me some awesome drugs.  And ever since then I’ll wake up every now and then with a screaming head and the need to puke my guts up.

So yeah, migraines suck, to put it mildly. Not only is there pain, and puking, I also get an increased chance of stroke. Woot! I don’t get them as often as I used to, which is something. And usually if I do, it’s my own fault, for not taking care of myself better. If I skip meals, if I don’t get enough sleep, if I have too much sleep, if I’m feeling stressed out, I can’t be surprised if one comes a knocking. But hopefully not for a good while now, ok head?

Face Off, Part Two

I saw him again, oh yes.

The time: 12.30 am. The place: My hallway. The winner: Undecided.

I did not sleep well. I had pushed a towel against the bottom of my door (I’m sure only for my own psychological benefit and not for any real use) and I stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Eventually I had to pee, of course I did, my bladder is hateful. So I carefully opened my door. I had left the hall light on, cos mice don’t like light do they? But my flatmate had turned it off. I hit the switch, and there he was (twas a he, I have decided), bold as bloody brass, in the middle of the hall. Right you bugger, I am not having this. This is MY house! He pegged it down to the bathroom as I walked, so I wedged the front door open with my laundry basket, shoved more towels under the doors to block his way, and made for the kitchen. I shuffled past him and grabbed the broom, and stood with my body half in the kitchen and half in the hall. And then I stared at him for ten minutes.

I know it is ridiculous to be so wound up over such a tiny thing, and it is much more scared of me than I am of it, and all that, but still. I probably could have smushed him with the broom to be honest. He was so scared and totally still. I did feel sorry for him. A bit. But it’s one thing to set traps (which I don’t really like doing), its another to smash his head in with a broom. I have a line, you know? Plus, the clean up would be a bitch.

I plucked up the courage to actually move and he ran off in the direction of the front door. Success!! …And ran behind the door. Bollocks. Move the other way you dumbass! So I poked him a bit and he stopped in the door hinge. There could have been an ugly death right there, but I caught the door. Again, mouse guts all up the wall? I don’t want to deal with that. He ran back and hid behind the laundry basket. Motherf*cker! Just go away!

And then Houdini disappeared. Poof. Gone. I don’t know whether he legged it down the stairs while I was looking behind the basket, or if he’s found a way into it and is right now curled up happily in my dirty washing, but he was gone. And I was knackered, and so I went back to bed. Leaving the basket in the hallway, just in case.

I called the estate agents yesterday morning, who were very nice about it, and said they would send someone round, but if we thought it was just a one off could we try traps first? And while I’d rather they send round the bomb squad and fettle every inch of the flat, it is possible it got in through the front door (the chap upstairs works on his bike out front and leaves the door open) and hasn’t actually taken up residence with his mice pals. So I will get traps and we will see.

Thank god there’s cake.

Face Off, Part One

I have had better evenings.

I got home last night with every intention to run, but it was raining, oh no! So I took my shopping into the kitchen and hunted for food, went back to my bedroom for something, and when I came out I saw something small and black run across the hall.

I stopped, by heart beating fast, hands to my face. Oh god, what do I want it to be? Do I want it to be a mouse? A cockroach? An as yet undiscovered something that can walk through walls and has disappeared?

I edged down the hall like I was in a horror movie, slow, tiny steps. And there it was, the tiniest mouse you have ever seen, sitting in the bathroom doorway.

Bollocks.

What do I do what do I do? Well, I ask the internet of course, which gave me helpful answers, varying from ‘get a cat’ to the types of poison and traps that were most effective. All great suggestions, thank you Internet Land, but it didn’t solve my immediate problem of having a mouse IN MY HALLWAY! I called my brother (which shows my desperation cos he’s not the best in a crisis) who told me to try and force it outside, ‘But don’t let it jump on your face cos it might bite you and have rabies.’ Thanks bro, I totally would have let it jump on my face if you hadn’t said that, but now I’m good.

By the time I had opened the front door and got the broom from the kitchen, the little shit had disappeared. Double bollocks. I can’t sleep knowing it’s out there. What if I wake up with it on my FACE!?

I went out to buy some traps but alas, all the shops were shut by this time, and my trusty corner shop didn’t know what I was talking about. ‘Mouse trap? What is that?’ OK, moving on. I went home and de-crumbed the place, disinfected the kitchen and emptied all the bins. I still felt all icky though.

I went to bed and didn’t sleep, but we weren’t done, me and the mouse, oh no.