gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever
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| bandhag gibbon-arsed ramblings of a hopeless underachiever |
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Thursday, January 29, 2004 So tomorrow one of two things is going to happen: Either 1. We'll go and see the flat, all will be well and I'll move in on Saturday, in which case I'll have no proper Internet access for a fortnight, so will update this very infrequently when I get to an Internet cafe or a friend's house. Or 2. We'll go and see the flat, all will be shit and we won't be moving in there on Saturday. In this case, I have no idea what will happen - whether we'll just shift stuff anyway and stick it in storage until we find somewhere, or what. If this second option happens, I'll put a stop on my Internet account being cancelled, and will update at some point in the next few days, typing one-handed as I tear my hair out. Meanwhile, all of these things have to happen before 2 o'clock tomorrow: 1. Doing three hours of work, starting right now. 2. Finish my packing, which seems to be barely started even though I was at it all day. 3. Finish my tax return and make a payment. Wish me luck, folks. See you on the other side. posted by bandhag | 1/29/2004 11:45:00 PM Wednesday, January 28, 2004 I have had what can only be described as a Really Shit Day, characterised by disappointments (the flat, on which we were meant to be signing the lease today, turned out to be filthier and in no better state of repair than it was when we saw it 2 weeks ago and agreed with the agents what needed to be done before we'd move in), bad weather (snow brings the South to a standstill. Again. We've only been expecting it for a week, what did you expect?), and irritation (The Soak jabbering at me incessantly at exactly the moments of the day I just wanted to be Left the Fuck Alone). So, I've wasted an entire day and now I'm going to order a pizza and do some work. Mind you, things were brightened considerably when I read this. PB Curtis, you owe me some new pants. posted by bandhag | 1/28/2004 10:11:00 PM Tuesday, January 27, 2004 So, I was following some blog links (like you do when you've got nothing better to do than try to cram your life into a few cardboard boxes and do enough work to ensure you can eat after your move to That London), when I stumbled across this article, via the marvellous Green Fairy. If you can't be bothered to read it, it's basically some guy saying that normal people marry by 30, that married people are better than single people (yes, I'm quoting) and that single people contribute nothing to civilisation. Shit. Best I hurry along, then, seeing as it's "the big 3-O" for me this year and I so desperately want to be "normal". Nothing worse than spending the rest of my life "leaning against the bar, sighing, waiting for somebody -- anybody -- to happen by". All is not lost, though, as it's a leap year so I get to ask someone to marry me. All I have to do is pick someone else who wants to be normal and they'll most surely agree, becuase they'll want to be normal too, and not to die a "bitter, vinegary distillate of their former self" by staying single any longer. Phew, eh? Form an orderly queue, boys. Oops, sorry - I mean "First come, first served" - must remember that I can't be picky if I'm to meet the deadline. posted by bandhag | 1/27/2004 11:16:00 AM Monday, January 26, 2004 Dried ones aren't like they are in Fig Rolls, are they? I bit into one today and...all those seeds...millions of them, all squished together with nothing fruity in between. It's nothing but leathery skin, half a millimetre of vaguely fruit-like stuff and then just....seeds in air. It immediately put me in mind of chowing down on fossilised testicles.* I declined the generous offer of a second. *Which I haven't done for a good few months. Bddum, tsssh! posted by bandhag | 1/26/2004 11:58:00 PM What's all this guff about feeds on the Blogger front page? That's the third time I've seen that phrase used in relation to blogs today... At this specific moment in time, I'm trying to convince my body that it does not need a burger from the kebab place round the corner. No, not even as a nostalgia thing. Stupid treacherous body. I'm feeling weird today, and suffering from pangs of doubt about the move. Largely these revolve around social things - moving away is going to decrease my circle of "nearby friends" massively, albeit it to a few people who I tend to see more frequently than the ones who live five minutes down the road. Still, it makes me nervous and perhaps a little sad. But then I slap myself in the face and remind myself that I'm not exactly moving to the other side of the world - or the other side of the country, come to that. I guess it's just paranoia in case a) I fall out with London friends for some as-yet-unseen reason that will (naturally) be All My Fault; or b) nobody bothers to come and see me when I've moved away. Ah, vanity. Meanwhile, today Kitty Bandhag has swung into full-on "I know you're up to something, bitch. What is it?" mode. She keeps eyeing me suspiciously and making a point of sniffing the packed boxes and then narrowing her eyes at me accusingly. I fear that she senses it's nearly time for The Box. Kitty Bandhag hates going in her box, despite the fact it's a tres fetching lilac colour that I'm sure in no way marks her out as a bullying target when the cats in the new neighbourhood see her in it. She begins very loud "Oh my God, I'm going to DIE!" yowling as soon as she gets in it, and then sticks one paw through her bars - reaching out to me, pitifully, like a Death Row inmate. I keep threatening to buy her a tiny tin mug so she can rattle it backwards and forwards along the bars. The Move will require us to enjoy this pathetic and hugely guilt-inducing routine for a good hour and a half. When we get to the other end, she'll be horrified and appalled to find that we've moved house yet again, and call the Social Services or Childline or something and demand to know why they don't deal with mistreated cats. Then she will pack a tiny suitcase, tell me she's had enough of my selfish attitude and wild lifestyle, push her hat down over her ears and storm out of the front door to hide in a local cafe for just long enough to make me think she's really run away, and call the police to report her missing. Probably. posted by bandhag | 1/26/2004 11:45:00 PM Well London costs. And right here's where you start paying... in banker's drafts!!! Baby look at me I'm shifting proper-er-ty Packing all my shit in a box Forwarding mail and getting new keys for all locks Really need to-oo sleep These stupid hours I keep Doing work and packing my stuff I've about had enough Remember the pain PAIN Moving house sucks, it's a fact man Don't wanna do it again PAIN Read the meters, book the hire van Think that I'm going insane PAIN Can't sleep at night with the worry Where has my list gone again? PAIN Don't move again in a hurry Baby, remember the pain (Remember, Remember, Remember, Remember...) Yes, that little ditty (to the tune of "Fame", in case you hadn't guessed) has been on heavy rotation on the internal jukebox today. Think I'm finally losing it. I loved Fame. I wanted to be Doris (though God knows why, she was just an American Bonnie Langford, wasn't she?). I remember getting a Fame colouring book for Christmas one year. One of the pictures was a facial shot of Prof Shorofsky. You know, this guy. You can imagine how exciting that was to colour... posted by bandhag | 1/26/2004 05:17:00 PM Thursday, January 22, 2004 is not like being taken out to dinner. Just so you know. posted by bandhag | 1/22/2004 01:13:00 PM You might like to peruse the links on my right and note that there are two new splendid shiny links to ladies who have kindly linked to little ole moi: Fluffy, who was kind enough to say some lovely things in my comments box. (Tee hee, "box". Tee hee hee. Sorry). A sassy young laydeh who manages to update her blog frequently, in between running round after 3 kids. Erk. Makes me a ashamed to call myself an adult. and Vanessa, who has me listed under "corpus" in her list of bloggy linky things. I'm intrigued to know what all her subtitles mean. For now, I'll just hope I'm not in a category that means "Total shite. Please point and laugh". Though that would be quite fair, come to think of it. She likes Henry Rollins, and therefore is automatically cool. I should become a Catholic, the amount I'm now worrying about being taken for a link whore... posted by bandhag | 1/22/2004 01:12:00 PM I've never talked about them on here, but one of the reasons I'll be glad to see the back of this house is one of my flatmates and his perma-present girlfriend. Let's call them Kermit and Gonzo, because they're a right pair of fucking muppets. They are one of these couples who are not Kermit and Gonzo, but "Kermonzo" - a couple who have completely lost their own identities, and can only function as a permanently-adjoined unit. Nobody realised this when he moved in, because they immediately went off travelling for a month. But as soon as they were back, they went into full-on Kermonzo mode. Basically, she lives in our house. She's also a member of the co-op, so her own house is literally 200 yards away but they never - repeat never - go there. She's even here when he goes out. A torrent of her snotty friends are forever in my house, ignoring (or being extremely rude to) those of us who actually live there. She dyes her hair here, and leaves the entire bathroom covered in thick globs of red hair dye. She gets packages delivered here, but lays in fucking bed all day so that either I, or my other housemate who works from home, have to go and take delivery of them. She told my (rather timid) housemate to turn his music down because she was "in bed, ill" one day when male Kermonzo was out. She's a pain in the fucking arse. Plus,every time I go into the kitchen and one of them is making tea or coffee for themselves plus entourage, they say "Oo, can I just borrow some of your milk?". And so it was today. Then I came upstairs and thought "Hmm, that smells like me very expensive shower gel", and lo and behold, female Kermonzo comes out of the bathroom. Since I've lived here, I've had various items of food and toiletries not only used, but used up and thrown away. I know it's not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but I just do not take other people's things when I'm housesharing. It's just rude, and unnecessary. I know it goes on in most houseshares - a little bit of stuff 'borrowed' without people knowing here and there, and that doesn't bother me that much, but using other people's stuff so much that you finish it off is, in my humble opinion, just out of order. Another thing that really grates is that they've spent more than 2 of the past 6 months abroad. He's had warning after warning about non-payment of his rent. Maybe I'm just being a reactionary old git, or maybe I'm jealous, but I really can't relate to the kind of person who feels they can afford to go on holiday all the time but not to pay their rent and buy their own milk and toiletries. So, am I the only one pissed off with them, and if not what have we done to stop all this? No, I'm not, and we've done nothing. Because at the end of the day, nobody's particularly comfortable with telling someone they can't have a guest round and everyone feels that complaining that their stuff is being used just makes them sound like a nitpicking arsehole. And, in my case, I'm leaving in a week and a bit anyway, so frankly - what's the point? So I've come to rant on here instead, and make myself look like a stroppy bitch to the intermaweb folk. Much more sensible. posted by bandhag | 1/22/2004 12:45:00 PM Didn't fall asleep until gone 7 this morning. Woke up at 10. Feeling. A little. Weird. Haven't managed to get the required amount of work in (some surprise there, eh?), so can't go back to bed. But in my fantasy, I do go back to bed, in about five minutes' time, and the snot factory that is my head gets bought up, all the little snot workers get made redundant and escorted off the premises, and the place gets converted into swanky, airy "Manhattan loft-style living spaces" by the time I wake up. My socialist principles do not extend to germs. posted by bandhag | 1/22/2004 12:05:00 PM Wednesday, January 21, 2004 Something I've noticed, with some amusement, is the manner in which I've always managed to slot into some category that makes it possible for other people to get away with (albeit fairly minor) misdemeanours and have the people close to them place responsibility for them squarely on me. M'lud, I present the evidence: Case 1 - My sisters. Plaintiff: my parents. Defendant: Me Whenever my sisters misbehaved - and even if parents were in the room to see who started it, it was All My Fault as I am "the oldest and should know better". The oldest child is, apparently, able to bend its younger siblings to its will, stopping them from misbehaving or ordering them to do so for its own malicious ends. Case 2 - My teenage female friends Plaintiff: their parents. Defendant: Me: I was the one from The Dodgy Part of Town and therefore (because everyone knows that poor people don't raise their kids properly) it was All My Fault because whatever capers my friends got up to in my presence were clearly all my idea and down to the fact that I was a Bad Influence. Children from poor backgrounds, apparently, have the ability to turn delightful children (who've been carefully raised in an environment of Daily Mail, Marks & Spencers clothing, a new car every year and two annual holidays) into deceitful, pram-faced junkies. By a method of poverty-osmosis or something, I shouldn't wonder. Case 3 - My adult (attached) female friends Plaintiff: their partners. Defendant: Me I am the one who is single and therefore it is All My Fault when they go out with me and end up getting hideously drunk and vomiting. Or when they go shopping with me and end up spend huge amounts of money (usually when I haven't bought anything). Boyfriends always suspect them of flirting with other people when they are out with me. All of this is All My Fault, because single women are, apparently, debauched and lecherous and particularly adept at turning lovely respectable girls in happy relationships into squanderous, unruly lushes. I am in no way suggesting that what has actually happened is that I have consistently found myself in the presence of people who tend to "misbehave" mostly when I (or someone like me) am around for their parents/other halves to blame. Oh no. I plead, like, totally guilty, Your Honour, dude. Suspended sentence, eh? Smashing. Being responsible for someone buying a laptop on credit behind her partner's back is just a bit too tame for me these days, the power hungry witch that I am, so if you'll excuse me - I need to go and turn my massive skills of persuasion and control to the more fruitful task of taking over the world. posted by bandhag | 1/21/2004 01:50:00 PM Tuesday, January 20, 2004 Number of working days this month (excluding 2 days off at the beginning for new year, obv): 20 Number of those days I need to have worked in order to be able to keep my head above water after The Move: 20 Number of days lost to househunting, IT problems, trying to arrange "things" and "stuff": 8 Number of hours I will have to work each day in order to make up that time: 12.6 (recurring). I will also have to fit in packing, painting my new room, moving house, saying goodbye to people here, etc. Oh shit, then. Or maybe not. I suppose if I just do packing etc at evenings and weekends it'll be ok. 'Course, that'll mean getting up early enough to do a full day's work before evening arrives, which will mean just have to make it clear to people I'm not available for mid-week daytime stuff. It's remarkably hard to get through to people that just because you work from home doesn't actually mean you spend all day lying on the sofa eating Thorntons while Trisha and Sally Jesse Raphael solve the problems of all the poor people in the world. What? I know those names from when I was on the dole, ACTUALLY. Or as it should be pronounced "ACK-CHERLEE!" Sometimes, I miss being a teenager and punctuating sentences with ACK-CHERLEE!. Adult life would be so much more fun con ack-cherlee, as it were. "Tell me, have you considered placing your savings and investments in an ISA? And can I interest you in our personal pension plan?" "Oh, I get all that done through a financial advisor, ACK-CHERLEE!" "Just give it to me straight, Doctor, what have I got?" "Well I'm afraid we're going to have to run some more tests, before we're sure. You'll need a stay in hospital ACK-CHERLEE!" "Oh dear oh dear oh dear, sir. In a hurry are we, sir? Did you realise you were doing 42 in a 40 mile-an-hour zone, sir?" "I'm terribly sorry, officer, but as you can see, my wife is in the advanced stages of labour ACK-CHERLEE!" "Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?" "I do, ACK-CHERLEE!" The trick is in delivering everything up until the ACK-CHERLEE! in a normal tone of voice, and then switch to the mildly aggressive "d'yawanna make some'ink of it?" manner at the end of the sentence. You know. Like "The Kids" do. I think I may try it out next time I'm bored. Leaving the city anyway and all that... posted by bandhag | 1/20/2004 02:06:00 AM Saturday, January 17, 2004 I will leave that drivel there, to remind myself what an arse I am when I'm drunk. It can be my punishment. Blossom Hill is not my friend. Fie on you, Blossom Hill. posted by bandhag | 1/17/2004 03:38:00 PM My present ISP suck. In my opinion (note lawsuit avoidance tactic). Not only has their service been up and down like the proverbial whore's knickers over the past three days, they said on their website that they serve the area I'm moving into, only when I called to arrange the transfer, it turns out that they don't and won't do for six months. I use the Internet for my work. So I've spent most of the day trying to figure out what I'm going to do next. It's been fun, I can tell you now. "Gee, shall I go for this company that charges over the odds, or this other company, that charges way over the odds? Decision decisions..." Also they told me that it doesn't matter that my email has been inaccessible for the past 3 days (even though it's what I use for work) since it's "a free element that we provide with the Internet service". Uh huh. Well, you have a separate line for people with phone problems, and I get my phone line as a "free element" of my Internet service too, so how do you explain that one away? Any old hoo. I've a feeling I'm being about as interesting as having your veruccas explained to you, so I'm going to bed now. Yeah, booze is bad mkay. Yep. Hair stroking, my room, now. Bring your own chocolate. posted by bandhag | 1/17/2004 04:30:00 AM So, it appears there's some kind of "Pay it Forward" type thing going on, and I go "Blush blush blush" for having been nominated by the fantastic Tittybiscuit. The original page is here apparently. My votes: Stuart, because I love him and want him to get over his "thing" for boyish women and fall for a bloater, so that I might make the sexy with him, ah yeah. Also, he damn funny, muthafuckas. For shizzle. Babs, even though it's probably against the rules of this thing, cos she makes me laugh and is like what I imagine the younger, funnier, sexier me might have been like if the younger me hadn't been more morose and less attractive than the present me. Actually, that doesn't make me laugh, that makes me want to kill her to bits. And get some lessons in syntax. I have drinked all of my Blossom Hill. Now I want someone to do the huggy-take-care-of-me-stroke-my-hair-maybe-be-a-bit-saucy-and-I'll-pretend-I-don't-wanna-for-a-while-before-caving-and-shagging-him-stupid thing with. Or just the hugging. The room may be spinning at too high a velocity for me to pull off the rest without illness being involved. Hugging is good. With the kissy-hair thing, though. Has to have the kissy-hair thing. And the cuddling. Please note: non-smokers' hair is fresh and delightful and infinitely kissable. Not that I'm, like, pimping my hair or anything. I'll cuddle you back. Me cuddle long time. Ok, I'm going to bed now. PS - comments people: you SUCK. that's the third day comments have been broken. Bah. BAH, I say. posted by bandhag | 1/17/2004 04:06:00 AM Friday, January 16, 2004 They're filming a sequel to The Goonies. Saints preserve us. Apologies to The Big Man for all this here ungodly blasphemery but sheee-it, if a Goonies sequel isn't worth it then I don't know what is. posted by bandhag | 1/16/2004 11:46:00 PM "It's different for you: if someone's never been happy with their body, they look in the mirror and they're not disappointed. Whereas for me, I've always looked in the mirror and seen a fantastic figure, so it's really hit hard now that that's gone". Thus spake Neurotic my friend this evening. You know, this one, explaining her reaction to the fact she'd put on a pair of tight knickers and noted "a slight bulge" above and below the elastic. Being the great friend that I am, I whipped up my top, flashed her my massive tits and did the "truffle shuffle" (TM The Goonies) to cheer her up. No, I didn't. She's got a point, though. Tonight, I am going to drink wine. Oh yes. Don't even try to stop me. I know it's a ladies' drink, for ladies, and I usually drink the men's drinks, for men, but I'm pretty willing to bet that by the time I've polished off that bottle of Blossom Hill, I'll be looking at myself in the mirror, giving it "Oh YEAH, baby. You got it going ON! You gots some stylin' moves and a kick-ass figure, fo' sho', honeychile!". And such. I have hidden my wine under a packet of bacon, to try to ensure that it survives The Soak's prowling. If MI6 are reading, I'm available for interview at any time, and references are available on request. posted by bandhag | 1/16/2004 10:54:00 PM Wednesday, January 14, 2004 Anyone watch it? No? Lucky you. The sooner someone bitch-slaps Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie's overprivileged, arrogant, disrespectufl, self-centred arses into next year, the better. I hate them. And I hate myself for hating them, because I know that that's the point of the programme and that that's why they act like they do - they're that special breed of woman that act like total fucking bitches so that they can complain that people don't like them "because they're jealous". Meanwhile, I really am leading the simple life - eating as little and working as much as I possibly can, in order to save for The Move. So far it's one sandwich and a bowl of pasta for the former and 9 hours for the latter. Hoping to do a couple more before bed. Gosh. I'm so exciting. The Soak burst into the front room early this evening and announced that he is going to live in San Francisco. On Sunday, it was France, and he started packing his room and throwing most of his belongings away. To say he is something of a drama queen is under-egging the pudding so much that it turns the pudding into...I dunno...potatoes or something. I usually just have to sit there and make the appropriate noises, but I have to confess to taking great delight in parrying his recent declarations about his fantasy move with my real one. When he announced he was going to France, I asked "Really? When?" and he replied "Er. I don't know. When I decide what I want to do out there" "Oh," I replied "I'm moving to London soon". Wind removed from sails. When he announced the San Francisco thing (in a similar fashion: entrance, stage right, dramatic pause, hand to forehead "I am going to San Francisssco!"), I said "Ah right. I've given my notice in now, leaving at the end of the month". Party well and truly pooped. Still, it all backfired on me when he came in later and announced (with flourish) "Actually, I've always wanted to live in LONdon. So much to DO there!", it was all I could do to stop myself from screaming "NO! NO! NO! You can't!". Then I remembered there's about as much chance of him actually moving as there is of me waking up at 8 on a Saturday morning and not finding him already drunk. posted by bandhag | 1/14/2004 12:28:00 AM Monday, January 12, 2004 I made it on time. In fact, I made it 20 minutes early and wandered around the neighbourhood, being stared at by Locals like I was the world's smallest, fattest, most conspicuous burglar in the world EVER (TM). I've got that London Transport thing licked now, clearly. posted by bandhag | 1/12/2004 07:44:00 PM Zone 3, that is. (Crap London Underground joke ahoy). The flat, it is pronounced Good. We make unreasonable demands of the Boy-Child Letting Agent. He agrees to them all. We tell him we will walk back to his office "to talk it over" - acting all mysterious, like. Don't want him to get too eager. We go to a cafe round the corner where very nice capuccino is 50p (served in polystyrene cups but shit, dude, 50p - it's like it's 1986 again or something. Plus it's not Starfucks, which is spot on in my book). We agree that, while not the flashiest flat in the world, with a scrub-up and a lick of paint, we can make it groovy and it's a really good location (off licence, chippy, supermarket, pizza shop, all within 2 minutes) and plenty big enough. Yes, we will take it. We go to the office and tell Boy-Child that we will take the flat. Blah blah paperwork, list of works, admin fee, blah blah, references, blah blah. He passes us each a card. "Director" it says, under his name. Director?!! DI-fucking-RECTOR?! I shit you not, this kid looks 18 if he's a day. We'd only just been saying how he must be at least 20, since he mentioned being at the place for 4 years, but he looks sooooo young. We agreed he was the kind of boy that if we were 16-year old girly-girls, we'd be giggling and swooning at and passing notes saying "My mate fancies you". But his face lies. He is the Director of a successful London letting agency. No doubt a hardcore businessman, not a cheeky little chappy who wants his hair ruffled. And there was me thinking the Bimma must be a company car... Later, I mentally christen him Doogie Housing MD. Waka waka waka! Man, I am some kind of hilarious. Ahem. posted by bandhag | 1/12/2004 07:38:00 PM Well, not really but it's a v busy day. Which is, of course, why I'm wasting precious minutes blogging. Going down for a second look at a flat in That London today. This may be The One. Fingers crossed, anyway. I will be leaving myself stupid amounts of time for the journey. "But why?" I hear you ask. No? Oh well, I'm telling you anyway. Because the first time I came down to London to see a flat, I had to move the appointment back half an hour (friend turns up on doorstep requiring IMMEDIATE pc help just as I'm trying to leave) and was 15 minutes late even after that (facking trains). I loathe being late, it makes me really panicky, so I was in a right old state. Being a gal who learns from her mistakes, the second time, I allowed myself an extra half hour. This time, I was 45 minutes late. Got to the appropriate Tube station in time, feeling smug. Go to wait for bus. There's one of those flashy LED doodads that tells you how long it'll be to the next bus. 5 minutes to wait for the bus I need. Nice. After 5 minutes, this changes to 8 minutes. Oh. A few minutes later, it change to 10 minutes. Shit. I will only just be there on time. 5 minutes later, it disappears altogether. Panicking, I call flatmate-to-be to tell her I'm really really sorry but I'm going to be late (again). 10 minutes after I'm meant to be at the appointment, a bus arrives - different number but still one I can get on. It's rammed. A little way along the route, it suddenly veers off and I think it's going a different way. SHITSHITOHMYGODLETMEOFF fight my way through the throng to get out... and realise that it's just pulled into the bus station that I didn't know existed, and will be going back along the route I thought it was going. Arse. Can't get back on there - too embarrassing. Sprint along the route to the next stop. Panting and panicking, wait for the same bus to pull up. Which it does. And lets no-one on because it's too full. SHIIIIIIIT. Now 20 minutes late. 5 minutes later, the next bus pulls up. Anxiety now at peak, I get off the bus one stop too early and have to sprint to the letting agents' office. Arrive red, sweaty, very very late. Did I mention how much I loathe being late? So today, I'm giving myself an hour. The flat is a 10 minute walk from the Tube. I can't possibly fuck it up this time, right? [touches wood, crosses herself, cuts feet off neighbour's pet rabbit, etc etc etc] posted by bandhag | 1/12/2004 11:20:00 AM Saturday, January 10, 2004 From: Aged Aunt To: Bandhag Subject: Complaint Dear Bandhag Thanks for the email you sent, with link to a Christmas card you'd lovingly constructed using Flash [Ed - first attempt, too. Ithangyewverymuch]. One small complaint though - light writing on a dark background is not very easy to read for us older folk [Ed - she's middle aged, not 90]. You may wish to consider this when designing web sites in future. Love Aged Aunt From: Bandhag To: Aged Aunt Subject: Re: Complaint Dear Aged Aunt Sorry you found it hard to read - I'll bear that in mind for any future ones I do for you. Love Bandhag Yeah, go on - tell me how difficult it is to read text that's been struck through, and how I "might wish to consider this when designing future web sites". I dare you. posted by bandhag | 1/10/2004 12:09:00 PM Thursday, January 08, 2004 From: neurotic friend who is a bit of a pain in the arse To: Bandhag Subject: blah blah blah Dear Bandhag So-and-so told me you sent them a Christmas email but you didn't send me one. Have I done something wrong? Are we still friends? Do you still like me? Love Neurotic To: Neurotic From: Bandhag Subject: Re: blah blah blah Oops! I hadn't realised I hadn't sent it to you - I'd bcc'd it to everyone and didn't realise I'd left you off it (can't check the bcc list on outlook express). I did do it at 3 in the morning! Sorry to make you paranoid, it was a genuine mistake [Ed - it really was a genuine mistake]. See you soon. Bandhag Whoever said "Honesty is the best policy" obviously didn't have girly girls as friends. I only have one. This one. posted by bandhag | 1/08/2004 01:28:00 PM Lawks. Looks like I may be moving very very soon indeed. I have never before come across the phenomenon of being able to barter over rent, but it appears you can do so in That London. So I did, and got my way! The flat is lovely but we're going back today for another look, because the more I think about it, the more I'm worried about storage space. Ah well, we'll see. Kind of glad it's all happening quickly, because I pretty much always get totally sleepless from the time I know I'm moving until the move actually arrives. I just can't switch off, whether I'm really happy and excited about it or really anxious and nervous. It's all "Must remember to sort out the gas... where will those drawers fit in... should I get the cat some tranqs so she doesn't freak the fuck out in her box like normal... I wonder what the corner shop's like" and so on. The "Things I Do Instead of Sleeping" series becomes a lot more varied in the run-up to moving. This will be the 15th time I've moved in 9 years, and when you bear in mind that I spent three years in one of those places and two in another, it's not hard to see why I have the beginnings of an ulcer. posted by bandhag | 1/08/2004 01:02:00 PM Tuesday, January 06, 2004 Oo, off to my first London flat-viewing this afternoon. I'm a bit nervous about all this. Being The World's Biggest Yokel (TM), I imagine London types as being terribly aggressive and yet devestatingly suave, so I can only assume the letting agent types will smooth talk me into looking at some horribly expensive but absolutely gorgeous flat, for the sole purpose of ridiculing me for being too poor to afford it. "Yes, lovely isn't it? Superb decor, loads of room, and look at that view! 'Course it's not for the likes of YOU, you bumpkin. Back to the Fens with you! Mwahahaha". And so on. One of the things I really like about London is the anonymity of it. Nobody pays any attention to you, so most of the time you can get away with looking like shit and/or acting the giddy goat (as my grannie would've said), and no-one cares. Naturally, within a week or two of moving, you can expect lots of "What I hate about London is the anonymity of it. Nobody pays any attention to you. Wah! Wah! Boohoo!" posts on here, then... posted by bandhag | 1/06/2004 11:33:00 AM Sunday, January 04, 2004 An uncharacteristically good mood. New Year's Eve, to which I had been looking forward for ages, was marred slightly by some viral unpleasantness that left me feeling like death warmed over. Nevertheless, I bravely struggled along to the pub and, like my posse, deeply wished that I hadn't at various points during the evening. Such points included: 1.11:58 pm, when the DJ announced "It's 2004". No countdown, and not even at the right time. 2. The DJ playing a song that appeared to be called "Yogi Bear" that sounded like a rugby song or something. This came immediately after the new year announcement, and shortly after he'd played a large dose of Jive Bunny, and the Birdy Song. 3. The food, which I avoided. Curry and rice. Vege option: rice. Option for those with tastebuds: a packet of crisps instead. 4. The one woman who had, inexplicably, decided to come in fancy dress as a 1920's flapper. She wasn't wearing a bra. She very much needed to. She equally as much needed to not dance around quite so enthusiastically. Last time we went to this pub for new year, it was actually quite good - really quiet, with a jukebox that was cheesy but not suicide-inducing. Anyway, a weekend of gigging, dancing and hanging out with my mates sorted it all right out and as I say, I'm in rather a good mood tonight. Which means I have nothing to blog about. Oh, apart from the fact that my mate and I bought Cookie Monster puppets because they were on sale and because they yell "Nom nom nom oh, oh that was delicious!" and other similar phrases whenever something's in their mouths. So, naturally, we had to spend a large amount of time making them get off with each other and guffawing like school children as they NOM-NOM-NOM'd and moaned their delight. Little things, little minds. Hell yeah. posted by bandhag | 1/04/2004 10:09:00 PM |
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