Last night I was treated to yet another variation on the people who use Facebook and Twitter are sad losers who should get a life rant. this came with a get a job variation, and an all that telling strangers everything is disgusting strand. No, really, get a job. Apparently the four or five I already have along with the three (or is it four?) voluntary roles are insufficient to qualify as an actual life.
So, my strange friends, stop what you’re doing immediately and go and do something less disgusting that a technophobic pensioner would approve of, will you?
Me, I’ve just ordered my shopping and arranged to have it delivered to my home next week, all from the comfort of the only warm place in my flat today, under the duvet! But hey, if using a pen and paper then driving to spend two hours stomping round Asda makes you a better person, fill your boots.
Don’t get me wrong, these are decent people, just ill-informed on this subject and buying the popular misconception. There’s a lot of it about!
They did have the decency to feed me a suitable response just moments later. “Anybody who watches soaps would know that.” Ah, soaps… Let me tell you what I think of your life choice there, and yes I have actually seen the thing I am commenting on.
It had to be done.
If there’s someone in your life you truly love, are you *sure* a poorly designed cutesy pic nicked off the web and shared with all your Farmville friends is the best way to tell them?
With Remembrance Day approaching, seems right to have had a long chat with a local chap recalling marching past the WW1 war graves in France as he went to battle in WW2. Also told stories of his Dad who was at the first battle of Ypres, still in tropical kit fresh off the transport from China. He shot a German officer who was directing an attack - the officer saluted him as he fell.
Please remember to buy your poppy.
The question has just been posed on a forum I use. In fact they included Realist, and “Me” - a jokey reference to their own ambivalence about where they fit in the spectrum.
In the past I’ve always said optimist, but it struck me that wasn’t really quite right this morning. There’s a degree of “it’ll be fine” about optimism that isn’t really me. It implies nothing needs to be done for it to work out fine, but that’s not what I’m about. I think you need to do your best to ensure it does, and not beat yourself up if it doesn’t work. So optimism mixed with fatalism maybe? No, that still doesn’t feel right (but is probably closer than the other options). Then it struck me… so my answer was:
“I don’t know if I’ve just invented a new name, or if this is already in use, but I’m a positivist. I strongly believe that your own attitude affects how your life goes. I know that focusing on the positive helps you enjoy your life more, and that feeds back into your routine making more positive things happen. Negativity, on the other hand, is a downward spiral into the pit. Dwelling on the bad stuff just reinforces it. Luckily, so does dwelling on the good stuff. “
My friend Rachael oftens tells stories about the difficulties that confront her and her partner that I would otherwise probably never think about and never experience. Being a witty, intelligent girl she frequently does so with verve and good humour. She often makes me laugh, while simultaneously making me bloody furious at the inanities and indignities she’s had to confront to achieve something perfectly simple that most of us would take in our stride. Oh, didn’t I say? Rachael and her boyfriend are both registered blind. As far as I can see it doesn’t define either of them, but it does shape how a lot of what happens to them goes…
Take today’s little gem. Well, no, you wouldn’t take it, and neither did they, but some little tick of a meter reader thought they should. Said tick arrived to read the meter unannounced, with no form of ID that a visually impaired person can use, and became instantly and incandescently abusive when they didn’t just let him in.
Now think about this…
If a guy came to your door, he was six foot six, covered in scars and prison tattoos and had an axe over one shoulder and a swag bag over the other, would you let him in? Even if he said he was there to read the meter? Okay, we’ll assume that was a no. Now… if you couldn’t see the guy at all and didn’t know if he was six foot etc or not, why - in the name of all that’s Holy - should you be expected to just take his word for it?
Since the utility company had used this same reader at a previous address of hers and Rachael recognised the guy from his voice and behaviour (well, yes, I think I’d recall a stroppy bastard sticking his boot in the door to try to force access too, and I’m not a musician with an ear for a voice), she knows perfectly well that both company and tick have had this situation explained to them before. You want access, you make an appointment and you come armed with a pre-arranged password. That’s basic security, and precisely how it’s supposed to work. There’s a procedure. Use it.
Would the tick get in an equal strop (I haven’t bothered to describe in details the actions and language, you can imagine it perfectly well) if he turned up at *my* door without any identification and I refused him access? I suspect not, I suspect he’d realise he’d been a bit of a twit to leave his ID card at home and would be in trouble with his employer if he tried to force it.
So why does an unsighted person deserve less consideration? Why is it okay to be gratuitously unpleasant to somebody who can’t see you? I think I know at least part of the answer to that - it’s in the nature of the bully to pick on anybody they *think* is weaker, and that sort of arse would see any form of disability as a weakness. Of course, when they read him his fortune he soon scurried away with his tail between his legs, but it probably came as a it of a shock to discover that being blind doesn’t mean being stupid, or weak, or gullible. I hope it will come as an even greater shock to discover it doesn’t mean they can’t report your sorry arse to your employer.
So, now it’s over to Seimens to see if they can explain to this guy in words of no more than one syllable why he needs to adjust his attitude. And not just this one tick I suspect - from some of the comments that have been made over this tale I’m guessing there’s an endemic problem here. Utility companies and your agents take note, your customers all deserve the same level of service and consideration, and if that means going an extra mile for those who need it, you should bloody well be doing it. Without fuss. Without abuse. Without question.
If Strictly was just about the dancing I’d probably watch some of it. But I loathe Brucie, who they apparently have to wheel on and prop against some tolerant blonde woman who must also operate the strings in his back. And the ridiculous posturing of a bunch of “who the fuck are they?” judges all going for Emmies as they over-reach themselves in attempting a TV “persona”. If it was just about a bunch of people learning to dance from scratch and getting points and somebody becoming champ… it would be good TV. Wouldn’t need the celebs, but wouldn’t offend me if they were there - as long as we didn’t need hours of back-story. We’ve reached a point of lowest common demoninator where every reality TV show is exactly the same - 99% drama, posturing, back-story and sobbing and 1% activity.
Why do so many people think *their* sense of humour is the only valid one, and if you don’t find what they say amusing it can only be because you have no sense of humour at all? It always puzzles me. I know my own SoH oscillates between slightly high-brow and witty, and completely low-brow and scatological and doesn’t cover much ground between the two*. 99% of “jokes” sent by text or email and pretty much every one of those “this is so funny” FB pictures leave me completely cold. But I accept that others think they’re hilarious and may even really piss themselves and roll on the floor at their extreme hilarity, unhygienic and uncomfortable as that sounds.
As far as possible I stop friends sending me “funny” texts and pictures (especially those with openly viewable address lists a mile long!) but with people one knows less well it’s not always possible to think of a tactful message.
Perhaps I need an amusingly captioned picture that I can send back, opting out of all such nonsense.
Hmmm… that might work, actually! Excuse me, I need to go and doodle…
* With a large side-serving of completely surreal. Love a bit of surrealism. :o)
Yet another deeply ugly piece in the Mail, pretends to condemn domestic violence while dribbling at the thought that strong, intelligent woment are all begging for a good thumping really. What a shitty rag that thing is. http://bit.ly/GG6RYu
I like words. I like fat buttery words, such as ooze, turpitude, glutinous, toady. I like solemn, angular, creaky words, such as straitlaced, cantankerous, pecunious, valedictory. I like spurious, black-is-white words, such as mortician, liquidate, tonsorial, demi-monde. I like suave “V” words, such as Svengali, svelte, bravura, verve. I like crunchy, brittle, crackly words, such as splinter, grapple, jostle, crusty. I like sullen, crabbed, scowling words, such as skulk, glower, scabby, churl. I like Oh-Heavens, my-gracious, land’s-sake words, such as tricksy, tucker, genteel, horrid. I like elegant, flowery words, such as estivate, peregrinate, elysium, halcyon. I like wormy, squirmy, mealy words, such as crawl, blubber, squeal, drip. I like sniggly, chuckling words, such as cowlick, gurgle, bubble and burp.
I like the word screenwriter better than copywriter, so I decided to quit my job in a New York advertising agency and try my luck in Hollywood, but before taking the plunge I went to Europe for a year of study, contemplation and horsing around.
I have just returned and I still like words.
May I have a few with you?
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