I paid the fine.
The fastidious reader will be aware that I got a rather expensive letter from the DVLA in November. Well I just got another one. Apparently, while I was untaxed and using / keeping my car on the public road, I was caught using my car on the public road, so never mind the £80 fine plus arrears I have already paid, they would like £1000 at least, or £72 if I want to settle out of court. They have given me ONE WEEK to pay the fine.
ONE WEEK.
It took them 4 MONTHS to work out I’d done it!
And I paid the fine 3 MONTHS ago!
I’m shouting lots of things, mostly rude.
It was a thrilling weekend, which was unfortunately trumped by my thrilling lunchtime, so Saturday night gets its belated blog today. At three in the morning, pootling by bicycle home in the freezing drizzle from Nik’s birthday party (excellent as all Nik’s gatherings are), I heard a commotion round the next corner, a man’s voice shouting passionately. When I look I see a mess of blonde hair, legs, and denim miniskirt lying curled on the wet pavement and a small but stocky looking guy in sportswear standing over her. It looks for all the world like he’s just punched her to the floor. She’s crying and huddling and he’s absolutely enraged and looks like he’s going to kick the living crap out of her. The last time I saw a scene like this was the harrowing 11-minute rape scene of Irreversible . I figure I’m not going to pass by.
He saw me as I pulled over with my bike and I called to him. He’s absolutely livid, drunk, and running on a cocktail of one part alcohol to one part adrenaline with a dash of having been wound up by an annoying woman. At that point a friend of the girl’s appears from nowhere and goes to help her out which makes life a lot less complicated. My job now is just to keep him away from her while the situation diffuses. He’s pissed and confused but doesn’t seem hellbent on violence. “This ALWAYS HAPPENS! STUPID BITCH! looks she’s bloody DROPPED ME PIZZA ON THE FLOOR NOW!” etc. I can’t get off my bike because that will look confrontational so I call him “mate” a lot and tell him it won’t help him any if he goes over there again, she’ll just f@ck with his head some more. Women. Ha ha.
It turns out they are all going the same way as me, the grizzling girl ahead with her consoling mate, followed by the raging boyfriend - this is not a rape, it’s a domestic, and it’s looking more and more like she grabbed him, he shoved, she took a dive in a footballer-style way, to add drama. I’m off the bike by now, semi-consoling, semi controlling the guy and trying to stop him from charging in with his size 11s to try and finish the, uh, disagreement. I still think he could well bop her one.
If I can just keep them apart till he calms down, I think… as she turns around and starts giving him an earful of shit.
There’s compassionate, and there’s stupid.
I quietly get on my bike and ride away as the mixture boils over once again.
20 seconds later he’s legging it past me shouting “you were talking to me earlier! come here, help me!”. But I don’t hear him.
On my way out to lunch today, hungry (always a bad thing) driving too fast, but leaving a huge safety gap, and thinking of house moving, washing-machine repairs, van rentals, work deadlines and salsa teaching, and suddenly I was distracted by what looked like a eurostar train coming the other way with FTN PILOT or something written across the front, pixellated in glittering lights.
I was momentarily puzzled by this thing, which turned out to be a futuristic bendybus. I immediately started thinking about the trouble the existing bendybus has on its route inside the inner ringroad where it has to rely on the courtesy and forethought of both directions of traffic to get out of its turning onto the inner ring road.
Then I noticed the car in front was stationary, waiting to turn right after this bus.
The cinquecento does not have anti-lock brakes, in fact I would go so far as to say it had extra-lock brakes, as each time you use the handbrake it sticks on, and from that point until you clout it a lot with a hammer, the brakes are very prone to locking on the back.
Nor does the cinquecento have much of a contact patch with the tarmac.
So there I am, doing 38mph, 37,mph, 36mph with all four wheels locked, and the distance between me and the unforgiving rear of the car in front is reducing at a much great rate than my speed. In my minds eye I see I am going to come to rest about half a car length in front of the car I’m hoping to avoid.
I need a plan.
I remember that grip is better when the brakes are off, but also that this will give me steering at the expense of stopping. There is oncoming traffic. I get a left-hand lock on, but keep the brakes on to get rid of as much speed as possible. At the last moment I release the brakes, and the car obediently leaps up the (fortunately sloping) kerb onto the grass verge.
The spare momentum is enough to carry me up onto the verge, around the stationary car, and back onto the road, where I wave an apology, put it in second or maybe third gear, and continue on my way.
That momentum could have so easily been transferred into crumpling of metal and placing of engine blocks onto shins, steering wheels into faces, and into the yanking apart of several veterbrae with all their sensitive bits of important signal-carrying nerves.
In short, I’m glad I have the right instincts for a situation like that, but I don’t think I’ll rely on them. I think I’ll work harder at not getting in situations like that again.
I still don’t know what an FTN PILOT is.
This morning (at about 1pm) I treated myself to a wander around the shops looking at furniture, cushions, crockery, cutlerly, cookware, pond filters and drainage solutions.
I am officially middle-aged.
I am also happy, looking forward to Friday when I will be the owner of my own heap of bricks and mud to roll around in. Woo hoo!
Went into the post office sorting office today where an utterly mirthless individual lurks in a grotto of jiffybags and bubblewrap and boxes, and in some kind of cruel parody of the Santa Claus tradition grudgingly hands people packages (subject to satisfactory identification and a signature).
I’m not particularly widely travelled, but so far Britain seems to be unique in the level of resentment displayed towards customers. We find ourselves apologising for being in the way of shelf stackers, who will be paid whether they stack the shelf or wait for you to finish choosing an item, to bartenders for interrupting their conversation to get them to pass you a bottle of beer from behind the bar, and to newsagents who would prefer to finish reading their article in the paper or chatting to Mrs. Smith about the death of her dog than to take some money off you for 20 Camel Lights and a can of Dandelion and Burdock.
When I went into the sorting office this morning, there was no queue, and nobody behind the counter. There was, however, a bellpush with a cheery sign next to it saying “Please Ring For Assistance”. So I rang. For assistance.
The troll stirred from his cave. FEE FIE FOE FUM! He shouted. (look, it’s MY story, my troll can say Giant things if I want). Actually what happened was the fellow on counter duty emerged from the back room, and looked at me as if he had been taught the Glance Of Death Of 1000 Pains by an ancient mystic, and was hoping this would be the time it actually worked. After he looked at me he stuck out his hand for the package slip and my ID, though he didn’t bother looking at me during this transaction so it was all a little bit grabby and I got the impression I had mortally wounded him, say by attempting botty-sex with his beloved pet terrier, or by selling his entire family into slavery on a distant continent and shipping them off before he could say goodbye.
When he went to scrabble huffily in the grotto, I noticed a second sign, laser printed and laminated.
Dear Customer,
Please do not ring the bell immediately when waiting to be served. We are in the back room sorting packages.
Thank you for your cooperation in this matter.
I saw the sign, and that explained the huffiness, and before I could stop myself — oh, the shame! I can’t believe I’m confessing this in a public forum! — I apologised.
Yes. I said sorry for ringing the bell for assistance.
WHAT?!?!?!?
That is wrong on SO many levels. How about:
Dear Customer,
We may not be aware of your presence unless you ring this bell. In order to allow us the impression that everything is under control, please pretend not to be present for at least 5 minutes before ringing the bell to let us know you are here.
or
Dear Customer,
All our other customers are more important than you, even though they are at work, at home, at the shops, or otherwise getting on with their lives while you are stood in a small, dull sorting office customer counter. Even though our other customers may be completely oblivious to the fact they have a package on its way, please do not get any ideas about getting served, we will serve you when we are good and ready. In the event that you magically know that we haven’t noticed you (as opposed to just being exceptionaly busy) please ring the bell. Please do not ring the bell if we have noticed you but just haven’t indicated that we have noticed you in any way.
So, I will be making up a laminated sign of my own to stick up on the wall opposite the counter.
Dear Royal Mail Employee,
Please note that the bell means “I am here” and not “Come at once you snivelling serf”. Please do not be offended if a customer rings the bell as the customer may not be able to see you. Please remember that the customer may have other places to be. The customer may have a job like yourself, and may be in a hurry to avoid the displeasure of his or her superiors.
In the event that the bell rings, it is suggested that you GET THE FUCK OVER YOURSELF AND ATTEND TO THE CUSTOMER AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE.
What a chuffing evening I had last night. Left work about 9pm, having failed to get really focussed and make the extra time really count. Usually on a Monday I slope off home, potter a bit, then wander down to Orgasmic Cafe where I’ll order grub and eat it while the salsa class is on, then grab Kim or Kate and plan the class I’ll teach on Wednesday, and dance till close.
Last night, I hurtled down in the motorcar, paid for parking, saving about 10 minutes’ walking to the venue, got there about 9:20 to be informed the kitchens closed at 9:30. (he goes early to get his bus ffs!). Legged it around town, slug and lettuce usually does food till 10pm but it’s a quiet night, no demand for it. Went to Oscars which I usually like, and got an immense burger which was not even hot enough to melt the cheese on it, cold chips, but onion rings divine enough to stop my throwing my dummy out of the pram, then legged it back to Orgasmic to find that there were perhaps two really decent lady dancers there and no Kate or Kim to plan lessons with.
Ho hum. Having written about all that, I can see it matters not a fig in the grand scheme of things. I think the big problem was the rubbishness of my state of mind due to silly pressures at work, and due to my own weakness.
Speaking of which, why am I writing this when there is a mountain of dung on my desk higher than my head…?
* puts down blog *
* picks up shovel *
Last night I found myself following another cinquecento, also L reg, in fact with matching L ??? LW? reg plate, and was most enthused to find another hunk of junk like mine still seemingly going strong. That gave me cause to reflect that it’s about time I fixed my offside brake light (it’s a pain having to avoid braking when there’s a police car behind you). As we entered Fishergate, the other cinq braked, and its offside brake light was also borked!
Factor THAT into your nature vs. nurture debate.
Well, this didn’t quite work out exactly to plan. This is a smoothie bottle with a hole in the bottom and a straw jammed into the hole. The idea is that you half fill the bottle and microwave it so the water boils, the steam rushes out the bottom, and you have a hovercraft. What really happens is the water boils, the bottle shrinks, the microwave half fills with steam and then the base of the bottle pops out and the bottle leans at a scary angle prompting you to shut off power to the microwave rather urgently. Note how loosely the label now fits, that shows the shrinkage that took place!
The average load of people in our office is now over 100%. I was in over christmas to deliver on my last deadline, and expect to work late or on a weekend to make my next. There is no end in sight to this trend, as the uberbosses are not interested in working conditions in a distant foreign country like England.
Not sure why I’m buying a house in York, most of the other jobs like mine are in Cambridge…