I love Christmas. I like buying people presents. There is something exciting about trying to match a person to a gift and vice versa. Somehow I can't imagine being one of those people who ends up panic buying on Christmas Eve and getting everyone something grotty from the local garage. Gifts don't have to be expensive, they just have to mean something. At the moment I'm listening to Christmas music on the radio, I've been writing cards and I've wrapped presents. I love Christmas songs, but I have friends who, at a party the other day, ran out of the room rather than hear any Christmas music. That's it though, I don't have a problem with Christmas - from Cliff's Mistletoe and Wine to O Holy Night, from Last Christmas to O Come All Ye Faithful, it is fantastic, especially when you consider that the whole thing started with one baby in a manger in Bethlehem - and that gets forgotten too often in the rush for presents, partying, if X Factor will be no. 1, if the turkey is big enough and the 101 other things that people worry about at Christmas.
So enjoy the run up to Christmas, and if you can, go to a church and just stop for a moment. Amid the rush and bustle, have a look at the nativity scene, and just remember that all of this is because of that small child.
If you can, go to a service. If you can't, just remember that small child. He certainly remembers you
Merry Christmas.
Randomeanderings: Useful and useless things, random assorted ideas and general waffle
Randomeanderings: Useful and useless things, random assorted ideas and general waffle
- clinestar
- Part time poet, full time librarian, student of the delights of milk chocolate. Likes books, milk, paddling, poetry, scribbling, chocolate, notebooks, sea, piers. Not necessarily in that order. All work copyright cih.
Monday 21 December 2009
Tuesday 15 December 2009
Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!
I like the idea of winter. Cold days curled up by the fire, looking out at the snow. Huddled in warm gloves and thick wool coats against the frosty air. However that is assuming that you can actually tell what the temperature is going to be.
At present I end up layering myself until I look like the Michelin man (or woman) then finally reach the outside world - after almost rolling downstairs as the many layers make me so wide that actually being able to see my feet enough to walk down the stairs is a physical feat too far - only to find that the weather is actually springlike. Not that I am complaining. I would just like to know where I stand, as I am aware that if I don't wear the layers, by the time I reach my office which is in the neighbouring county, I could be experiencing freezing fog and might regret not wearing those thermal longjohns.
Surely if December - February are technically winter then they should be guaranteed maximum and minimum temperatures. They should only be permitted certain types of weather, and no rain should be allowed during the day. In fact come to think of it, that there should be a no rain rule for all seasons apart from Autumn - mists and mellow fruitfulness? Hah! Anyway at least we would then know exactly where we were with the weather and would be able to go out bundled up, to throw our scarves round the (lack of) necks of the snowmen we have made and catch colds if we want to. After all it is our right. This is what the British winter is meant to be - it shows it on all the Christmas cards. Show me a Christmas card that has grey pavements and rain? No?
Christmas is snow. Despite not, within my admittedly faulty memory, ever experiencing a white one, I am hoping to this year :)
Thursday 12 November 2009
Wet, wet, wet
London in the dark and the rain has something rather special about it. Rain shining like diamonds on the black of the tarmac. Shop lights reflecting madly in the puddles.
Special that is unless you are out in it trying to get to - well, anywhere. In which case it is an obstacle course for the unwary. An uneven paving stone here will give you an unexpected footbath. Refreshing but rather unpleasant. The umbrellas that suddenly sprout from the well prepared Londoner's hand will just be waiting their chance to jab at your eye, or failing that, any unprotected part of your body (and later, should you find a seat on a train, you are likely to find that some inconsiderate so-and-so has rested their sodden umbrella on the seat previously and you only become aware of this as your rear descends into the warm wetness that you vaguely remember from your nappy wearing days).
Taxis and buses take great delight in driving into the large puddles that form at the side of the kerb where yet another drain has blocked and a small river will shortly appear. Bus queues move as one trying to stay beneath the shelter but away from the splash.
Pedestrians wend a haphazard way between all these and wish for their own personal taxis. Bring back the sedan chair.
Special that is unless you are out in it trying to get to - well, anywhere. In which case it is an obstacle course for the unwary. An uneven paving stone here will give you an unexpected footbath. Refreshing but rather unpleasant. The umbrellas that suddenly sprout from the well prepared Londoner's hand will just be waiting their chance to jab at your eye, or failing that, any unprotected part of your body (and later, should you find a seat on a train, you are likely to find that some inconsiderate so-and-so has rested their sodden umbrella on the seat previously and you only become aware of this as your rear descends into the warm wetness that you vaguely remember from your nappy wearing days).
Taxis and buses take great delight in driving into the large puddles that form at the side of the kerb where yet another drain has blocked and a small river will shortly appear. Bus queues move as one trying to stay beneath the shelter but away from the splash.
Pedestrians wend a haphazard way between all these and wish for their own personal taxis. Bring back the sedan chair.
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Puss in Boots
So I've been wandering round town today in the vain hope of purchasing a new pair of boots for winter that have the following fairly basic qualities:
a) waterproof
b) black
c) not excessively high heeled
d) not excessively thin heeled
Unfortunately I am so far unable to locate any that match my criteria. I didn't think I was being excessively fussy - let's face it, the waterproof bit is vital, especially when the sporadic rain we have here tends towards the torrential atm. I currently have a rather good umbrella which is proving to be rather effective at keeping my upper half dry. If my footwear is not providing the same service for my lower half then the whole thing is rather pointless really. There doesn’t seem a great deal of point in presenting a dry smartish upper if your knees and feet look like they have been wading through a river. If I buy boots with thin or high heels than I will bootless for most of the winter as the boots will be at the shop umpteen times being reheeled. Also if the boots were excessively high, I’d probably fall off them and break something.
So, back to the drawing board? Or is this a sign from on high that I have to go to Primark and buy those bright cerise fringed thigh high boots and wear them to work?
No, thought not.
a) waterproof
b) black
c) not excessively high heeled
d) not excessively thin heeled
Unfortunately I am so far unable to locate any that match my criteria. I didn't think I was being excessively fussy - let's face it, the waterproof bit is vital, especially when the sporadic rain we have here tends towards the torrential atm. I currently have a rather good umbrella which is proving to be rather effective at keeping my upper half dry. If my footwear is not providing the same service for my lower half then the whole thing is rather pointless really. There doesn’t seem a great deal of point in presenting a dry smartish upper if your knees and feet look like they have been wading through a river. If I buy boots with thin or high heels than I will bootless for most of the winter as the boots will be at the shop umpteen times being reheeled. Also if the boots were excessively high, I’d probably fall off them and break something.
So, back to the drawing board? Or is this a sign from on high that I have to go to Primark and buy those bright cerise fringed thigh high boots and wear them to work?
No, thought not.
Monday 5 October 2009
Corpsing in Camden?
The sun was shining, the wind was cold, the crowds were good humoured...and a random woman tried to strangle me. I say strangle, I actually mean garrotte.
On a perfectly normal trip to Camden in search of suitable garb for a vampire prince (don't ask), we happened to be walking down the street as a rotund female American tourist happened to be walking past the other way. She had a rather weird handbag with a lot of overlapping metal hoops hanging from it, rather like fish scales. I remember noticing the sheer ugliness of the handbag and vaguely wondering why on earth anyone would buy something that looked like that as she walked past me. I went on walking and then I suddenly jerked backwards and couldn't breathe.
Apart from occasional extremely non-serious wheezing, easily relievable by my inhaler, I've never really been unable to breathe so it was a very odd sensation. The realisation that my inability to breathe was caused by my scarf was something of a relief. My scarf was wrapped so tightly round my neck that I couldn't get my finger between the scarf and my skin for a few long minutes (possibly just very long seconds). When I did, I started coughing and had to go and sit down and have something to drink so that I could swallow properly without wanting to retch.
Apart from occasional extremely non-serious wheezing, easily relievable by my inhaler, I've never really been unable to breathe so it was a very odd sensation. The realisation that my inability to breathe was caused by my scarf was something of a relief. My scarf was wrapped so tightly round my neck that I couldn't get my finger between the scarf and my skin for a few long minutes (possibly just very long seconds). When I did, I started coughing and had to go and sit down and have something to drink so that I could swallow properly without wanting to retch.
What we think in retrospect had happened was that the end of my scarf had got trapped in one of the loops of her bag (or possibly the strap of her bag). However surely she noticed an extra X stone of me in addition to usual weight of her handbag? The only reaction we got was a distant 'sorry' floating back over the crowd.
Both my brother and boyfriend say it was an accident (they say she hasn't earned her full fee - it was only payable on a completed assassination), but joking aside, I am left with a sore throat and am finding it hard to swallow.
Literally and metaphorically.
Friday 17 July 2009
Song Associations
Just listening to the radio and I was instantly transported to the TOTP of my childhood (that's Top of the Pops, a TV show playing some of the top forty songs of the time for those of you who weren't born then/aren't UK based). Anyway when I just heard 'Martha's Harbour' by All About Eve it reminded me of the first time I saw it live in the TOTP studio - a very memorable experience, for all the wrong reasons.
Picture the scene. You are sitting watching your TV at, I believe, 7pm on a Thursday evening, and the camera pans to the next band. The music starts. The camera goes close up to the singer, whose voice you can hear singing. Her mouth isn't moving. You can hear the guitar playing. The guitarist isn't playing. The song progresses. The singer still isn't singing, she isn't attempting to mime, she is just perched on a stool in the middle of a sea of faces and looks slightly confused, occasionally turning her head from side to side scanning the studio.
In a later interview Julianne Regan apparently said that they couldn't actually hear the music and didn't know that the song had started.
It was the death knell for TOTP playing 'live' music. After that everyone assumed everything was mimed, even when it patently wasn't (i.e. was horribly flat).
All this reminiscence after a few minutes of a song heard on Radio Two just after 6 this morning
Oh and All About Eve went back and sang it again the next week, with people glued to the screen in case it happened again... I was one of them. It didn't.
Picture the scene. You are sitting watching your TV at, I believe, 7pm on a Thursday evening, and the camera pans to the next band. The music starts. The camera goes close up to the singer, whose voice you can hear singing. Her mouth isn't moving. You can hear the guitar playing. The guitarist isn't playing. The song progresses. The singer still isn't singing, she isn't attempting to mime, she is just perched on a stool in the middle of a sea of faces and looks slightly confused, occasionally turning her head from side to side scanning the studio.
In a later interview Julianne Regan apparently said that they couldn't actually hear the music and didn't know that the song had started.
It was the death knell for TOTP playing 'live' music. After that everyone assumed everything was mimed, even when it patently wasn't (i.e. was horribly flat).
All this reminiscence after a few minutes of a song heard on Radio Two just after 6 this morning
Oh and All About Eve went back and sang it again the next week, with people glued to the screen in case it happened again... I was one of them. It didn't.
Tuesday 7 July 2009
Lobsters
My recommendation for the summer is to take care when buying and using suncream and after sun lotions. Read the labels on the bottles very carefully. When I say very carefully, I mean, extremely carefully.
Otherwise you may find yourself in my current situation. I sit here, typing this, very patchily scarlet and white. In places my colour resembles that of a lobster, in others that of a milkbottle. All this due to not reading labels properly.
When I liberally plastered myself in cream on Saturday so I wouldn't get scalded by the noonday sun in Southwold, I was actually basting myself in aftersun oil. Which attracted the sun in a similar way to people in the 70s covering themselves in baby oil and lying on silver foil to improve their tans.
Our wander down the beach, walk along the prom (prom prom), paddle in the sea and peer at the pier were all accompanied by strong sunshine, but we were fine because we were wearing sunblock. Weren't we...?
Fortunately for my bf, only his neck was and face were exposed because of his choice of top (tshirt). Vest tops, while comfortable, are no protection.
So I am now once more covered in aftersun. This time I mean to be. I estimate that as soon as my 'tan' stops looking red and being sore, I should start peeling...
Otherwise you may find yourself in my current situation. I sit here, typing this, very patchily scarlet and white. In places my colour resembles that of a lobster, in others that of a milkbottle. All this due to not reading labels properly.
When I liberally plastered myself in cream on Saturday so I wouldn't get scalded by the noonday sun in Southwold, I was actually basting myself in aftersun oil. Which attracted the sun in a similar way to people in the 70s covering themselves in baby oil and lying on silver foil to improve their tans.
Our wander down the beach, walk along the prom (prom prom), paddle in the sea and peer at the pier were all accompanied by strong sunshine, but we were fine because we were wearing sunblock. Weren't we...?
Fortunately for my bf, only his neck was and face were exposed because of his choice of top (tshirt). Vest tops, while comfortable, are no protection.
So I am now once more covered in aftersun. This time I mean to be. I estimate that as soon as my 'tan' stops looking red and being sore, I should start peeling...
Thursday 2 July 2009
Random (Library) Meanderings
So I am going to be starting an MA in Library Science in September, at City University. So far so good. It'll be a part time MA over two years while I continue doing my usual work as well. So this Random Meanderings may well end up having a vaguely library feel on the odd occasion. Or not so odd occasion. I'll probably also end up with MA influenced tweets too. In fact I think it may influence my entire life. My poor family and bf :) If it wasn't bad enough to have to cope with the hundreds of books that I already share my life with...
I've been wondering what a Librarian actually looks like. I've known so many over the ten years that I've worked in libraries and they have ranged from the grey haired ladies with sensible shoes (think of the spectre at the start of Ghostbusters before she turns into a skeletal freak) to the self consciously hip and trendy ones wearing jeans and tshirts with logos. The main thing they have in common is their love of the job. Which is where I come in. No, I'm not saying that I'm going to be the scary version of the librarian. Although I guess if I ever go back to public sector and we ever get customers like some of the ones I've had to deal with in the past...no, I jest of course.
I went to the open evening at City on Wednesday. Got hideously lost en route due to my inability to follow directions and read maps simultaneously - a skill which was aided and abetted by a friendly stranger. This kind lady directed me a considerable way in completely the wrong direction and I only discovered this fact by checking with another person after deciding I'd been walking for an awfully long time with no recognisable street names appearing. Anyway.. once I reached the open evening I went to the talk about the course and came back full of information and ideas. In fact I came back buzzing with enthusiasm and the desire to read my books to prepare for the course.
Ok, I am slightly concerned that I won't be able to manage to work and study at the same time, especially given my previous health problems. The fact that I haven't studied academically since 1996 (apart from my C&G) is slightly alarming - but then I don't see why I shouldn't be able to do it!
Life is too short to not seize any opportunities that you get offered.
I can't wait until September :)
I've been wondering what a Librarian actually looks like. I've known so many over the ten years that I've worked in libraries and they have ranged from the grey haired ladies with sensible shoes (think of the spectre at the start of Ghostbusters before she turns into a skeletal freak) to the self consciously hip and trendy ones wearing jeans and tshirts with logos. The main thing they have in common is their love of the job. Which is where I come in. No, I'm not saying that I'm going to be the scary version of the librarian. Although I guess if I ever go back to public sector and we ever get customers like some of the ones I've had to deal with in the past...no, I jest of course.
I went to the open evening at City on Wednesday. Got hideously lost en route due to my inability to follow directions and read maps simultaneously - a skill which was aided and abetted by a friendly stranger. This kind lady directed me a considerable way in completely the wrong direction and I only discovered this fact by checking with another person after deciding I'd been walking for an awfully long time with no recognisable street names appearing. Anyway.. once I reached the open evening I went to the talk about the course and came back full of information and ideas. In fact I came back buzzing with enthusiasm and the desire to read my books to prepare for the course.
Ok, I am slightly concerned that I won't be able to manage to work and study at the same time, especially given my previous health problems. The fact that I haven't studied academically since 1996 (apart from my C&G) is slightly alarming - but then I don't see why I shouldn't be able to do it!
Life is too short to not seize any opportunities that you get offered.
I can't wait until September :)
The (not so) Great Train Robber
In the papers they are talking about the Great Train Robber, Ronnie Biggs, and his son's disbelief about Ronnie being denied parole. He has apparently had 3 strokes, 2 heart attacks and skin cancer. Poor old man...but is he?
This poor old man is a thief, an incompetent thief admittedly and, he is also at least party to the vicious assault on Jack Mills (the train driver).
Mills was struck on the head with an iron bar and never recovered completely from the blow to the head, suffering severe headaches for the rest of his life. He was unable to work again.
Biggs was arrested and imprisoned but escaped from Wandsworth Prison. He fled to Australia with his wife and children, then to Brazil where he had a son. He made a record with the Sex Pistols, wrote a biography, got kidnapped, had a public party in Brazil for his 70th birthday with other Great Train Robbers, lived the life of a celebrity in Brazil, then decided after over 30 years 'on the run' that he wanted to return to England and:
"My last wish is to walk into a Margate pub as an Englishman and buy a pint of bitter."(as told to The Sun)
You get parole for being repentant. It doesn't sound like he is... Nowhere in any quotes is there anything saying that he wishes that he hadn't done it. That he is sorry that Jack Mills was injured.
"I am an old man and often wonder if I truly deserve the extent of my punishment. I have accepted it and only want freedom to die with my family and not in jail." (Biggs's public appeal)
His son is complaining that this isn't justice. For whom? Certainly not for Jack Mills...
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/norfolk/8131053.stm
This poor old man is a thief, an incompetent thief admittedly and, he is also at least party to the vicious assault on Jack Mills (the train driver).
Mills was struck on the head with an iron bar and never recovered completely from the blow to the head, suffering severe headaches for the rest of his life. He was unable to work again.
Biggs was arrested and imprisoned but escaped from Wandsworth Prison. He fled to Australia with his wife and children, then to Brazil where he had a son. He made a record with the Sex Pistols, wrote a biography, got kidnapped, had a public party in Brazil for his 70th birthday with other Great Train Robbers, lived the life of a celebrity in Brazil, then decided after over 30 years 'on the run' that he wanted to return to England and:
"My last wish is to walk into a Margate pub as an Englishman and buy a pint of bitter."(as told to The Sun)
You get parole for being repentant. It doesn't sound like he is... Nowhere in any quotes is there anything saying that he wishes that he hadn't done it. That he is sorry that Jack Mills was injured.
"I am an old man and often wonder if I truly deserve the extent of my punishment. I have accepted it and only want freedom to die with my family and not in jail." (Biggs's public appeal)
His son is complaining that this isn't justice. For whom? Certainly not for Jack Mills...
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/norfolk/8131053.stm
Friday 12 June 2009
RSPCA
I have been watching a programme about the fantastic work done by the RSPCA. Except that the work wasn't fantastic.
A woman rang the RSPCA because she had been left in charge of her son's brand new puppy. The puppy was sick and when the officer went to see it turned out that the puppy was far too young to be away from its mother. After a discussion in which the RSPCA woman tried to point out that the puppy would die without medical attention, she left, but was called back a bit later and took the pup to a vet. So far so understandable.
They looked for the puppy's mother and discovered the address of the seller's flat from the guy who had bought the puppy. The bitch and her puppies were in an otherwise abandoned flat with no furniture, on a council estate. They were thin and the mother was extremely protective. The RSPCA had to get the police to come and break into the flat which was in a disgusting state.
However - the dog and her puppies looked like pitbull type dogs. If this was proven that they were pitbulls then they would be illegal.
The tests were done.
They were pitbulls.
They were put down.
So they were rescued then killed.
What was the point? Surely there was another way? Couldn't they have found someone with a licence (I understand that some people have licences to own pitbull type dogs) to have the dogs?
It seems unnecessarily cruel to rescue these dogs who came to them with such hope and trust of being saved from a terrible fate (dog fights or being kept for breeding then just dumped) only to be killed by their rescuers.
The expression on the bitch's face as she decided to trust the RSPCA inspector who carried her pups out of the excrement filled flat, only to have them end her life like that for being the wrong type of dog. Its wrong.
I haven't been in favour of the RSPCA since they lied last summer - they said our dog was in a hot metal car when he was in a cool glass fibre motorcaravan, and that the temperature in the car was too high when they hadn't actually even taken it...
So what with the poor pitbull family and their lying about Chip last summer, I for one am not going to be supporting their charity shops or stalls, nor buying their Christmas cards. It isn't much of a protest, but it is a start.
A woman rang the RSPCA because she had been left in charge of her son's brand new puppy. The puppy was sick and when the officer went to see it turned out that the puppy was far too young to be away from its mother. After a discussion in which the RSPCA woman tried to point out that the puppy would die without medical attention, she left, but was called back a bit later and took the pup to a vet. So far so understandable.
They looked for the puppy's mother and discovered the address of the seller's flat from the guy who had bought the puppy. The bitch and her puppies were in an otherwise abandoned flat with no furniture, on a council estate. They were thin and the mother was extremely protective. The RSPCA had to get the police to come and break into the flat which was in a disgusting state.
However - the dog and her puppies looked like pitbull type dogs. If this was proven that they were pitbulls then they would be illegal.
The tests were done.
They were pitbulls.
They were put down.
So they were rescued then killed.
What was the point? Surely there was another way? Couldn't they have found someone with a licence (I understand that some people have licences to own pitbull type dogs) to have the dogs?
It seems unnecessarily cruel to rescue these dogs who came to them with such hope and trust of being saved from a terrible fate (dog fights or being kept for breeding then just dumped) only to be killed by their rescuers.
The expression on the bitch's face as she decided to trust the RSPCA inspector who carried her pups out of the excrement filled flat, only to have them end her life like that for being the wrong type of dog. Its wrong.
I haven't been in favour of the RSPCA since they lied last summer - they said our dog was in a hot metal car when he was in a cool glass fibre motorcaravan, and that the temperature in the car was too high when they hadn't actually even taken it...
So what with the poor pitbull family and their lying about Chip last summer, I for one am not going to be supporting their charity shops or stalls, nor buying their Christmas cards. It isn't much of a protest, but it is a start.
Friday 17 April 2009
Fat fingers
Why do such large men have such tiny mobiles? On the train to and from work there are businessmen crammed in their business suits all with the smallest phones, their fat fingers trying to find the dinky little keys to text people or call someone. Maybe we need to have phones specifically designed for businessmen with podgy digit issues? Cut down on the accidental texts sent to the wife instead of the mistress? Now if only we could do something about predictive texting ar I understand it cam cd a problem sometimes...
Friday 3 April 2009
Alas, poor blog...
Poor abandoned blog. Yes, yet again I left you when I got something better to do. Which makes me think - all these people constantly updating their lives on Twitter - how do they actually have time to live them? If I was forever letting people know what I was up to (more so than I do on Facebook where I can have the same status for weeks from sheer idleness) then I'd never actually have time to do anything. Are they missing the point, or am I? So this blog will be sporadic. If I've written something two days in a row, then brilliant. If there is nothing for a month - or a year - then don't panic. I might be busy with life. Or I might have forgotten my password...
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