Hacked! [The "Take Me for a Trout" Edition]

So... after yet another phone call to try to solve the issue mentioned here, I finally talked with someone who admitted that the e-mail account has been hacked.

Since the exact same day, a lot of people have been complaining of the exact same issue, buuuuuuuuut... our provider says that it's our fault. Yea. Of course, the whole lot of us... from the same moment.

When I mentioned the possibility that they had been hacked to the IT bloke, he went "No, Ma'am! That's absolutely impossible!". Yea... but back in September, they had to admit that they'd been targeted. Why wouldn't it be the same this time??? "No, Ma'am! That's absolutely impossible!"

Whatev'.

There's no shame in being targeted by criminals, and since it took them thirteen days to admit that the account had been hacked, I'm not inclined to believe them about the origin of the hacking - sorry, guys!

Now, the next stupidity from them (unless the IT person who's going to read our online SOS/message does not have soup between the ears) is going to be the hopping through loops to get control of the account again. It really looks like DIY à la MacGyver to have to send a registered letter with proof of identity and new address because the "old" account (that they fucking have in their archives as the original e-mail account with the "old" address on file) is not fully linked to the new account. "We've got everything, but we're going to make you suffer whilst we're the ones with two left hands."

I hope to deal with someone with more than three brain cells in the box above its shoulders...

I'll keep you posted...

See you next year! ^_^

Of Internet Plonkers

My family's Internet provider is usually rather good, but for a fortnight, it's been a festival of idiocies.

First, someone called my mother (400 miles away from my flat, with a different name, and a different address) in order to talk about my connection. [Oops 1]

Then, Mother could no longer access her e-mail address (that started on the 17th, and it seems that her mailbox is far from being the only one).

I phoned them several times.

[First try] Girl 1: there's a big issue with a server. The connection will come back.

[Second try - two days later] Boy 1: I don't know what's going on. Send a message to the mail service. 

I did send a message, but since I could see no trace of it on Mother's contact page, I phoned again ->

[Third try] Boy 2: What's your problem? 

I started answering, and he hung up. Frothing at the mouth, I phoned back ->

Boy 3: I can't see your password. I can't tell you if it's been changed (that would have meant that Mother's account had been hacked). If you want me to post you your password, you'll need to send us (by snail mail!!!) a photocopy of a form of ID and of any document proving that your current address is valid because the e-mail address was created when you were living at another address, and it's that one that's still linked to the address.

I blew a fuse.

I told him that he has the "new" (since 2002!) address for the netbox, and he can bloody see the link between the old address (for the e-mail) and the new one (for the netbox and everything else).

I told him that it was a disgrace to have to rely on the post when dealing with an Internet provider (that froze the poor boy on the spot, by the way) and we would not be doing that. He finally suggested that I phone the techs, which is what I did ->

Girl 2: after I explained all the issues, she tried to guide me through the one thing I hadn't tried yet. When that didn't work, she managed to locate the answer from the mail service (that had been sent to the blocked e-mail address - how frigging intelligent), and it turns out that her first colleague was right; they've got a huge server problem.
Or do they? On their forums, they proudly announce that "everything's fine" whilst on other forums you can see dozens and dozens of people complaining (and we know that it's only the tip of the iceberg because not everyone subscribes to a forum to complain (I did not - I just read about their issues).
It seems that many people were hacked, and the provider demands that they explain how they think they got hacked.
Question: if I tell them that I'm convinced that they're the ones who were hacked because all the victims were attacked around the exact same time, are they going to help me?
I'm wasting time because of them, and Mother (I!!!) may have to change her address on quite a few sites if her original address doesn't get e-CPR very quickly.

Fuck! I could bite someone (working for our provider and being a silly plonker).

Too Mild December

Dear decerebrated bipeds,

I know the weather is muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuch milder than usual for mid-December, but it'd be nice to realize that you're not on a desert island when you leave the pub at 1 A.M. and you laugh and yell like banshees who caught all their fingers between stones.

As well, if you're driving and you've got your windows open, it'd be a tad nice to lower the sound of your hideous music that's blaring when you stop at a red light. You're not alone. It's quiet(er) music or closed windows, but I don't have to jump when you or your idiot clone stops at the lights below my bedroom window and you car is spilling atrocious music.

Try to behave like a civilized being, not a brainless bacterium.

Thank you.

***************

If it were colder, these plonkers wouldn't be so noisy outside in December!

[Hell, I miss Japan on days like this!]

Of Plonkers Raised in Barns

After the nastiest encounter with the Void in over a decade, I'm not exactly patient. Or compassionate. Or nice. [Let's face it, the average biped doesn't care if I'm being nice because that's the nicer thing to do to not screw one's karma]

Perhaps I'm too <insert some positive adjective here>.

Perhaps there's something Japanese in me (when I went to Chinatown last Tuesday, I cleaned the shop trolley that I took and threw the cookie wrappers left in it in the parking lot dustbin - coz that was the right thing to do. Pity there was no recycling bin, by the way).

When I go somewhere and that space is shared, I leave it the way I found it (or I make it better by fixing the equipment!). I was taught it was the proper thing to do in order to show you're civilized, not a Barbarian raised in a cave by rabid wolves.

And so... what happened today when I got to school? A colleague had left with my classroom's keys (I had to borrow the masterkey).

I was already growling a bit when I reached my door - then... I opened it and saw that the white board had been moved (I dragged it back to the spot where it always is).

Later, I needed the video-projector, and it was facing south whilst it's usually facing north. I turned it around and................................... I realized that someone had unplugged it (good thing I'm not clueless when it comes to plugging equipment - sometimes! - otherwise my lesson was toast).

Honestly, unplug all you want, but you're not alone on this planet, bloody plonkers! If you unplug/move/change anything, you take a few minutes to put everything back where you found it when you arrived! It's not quantum physics, selfish prat.

Baby Steps towards Writing Comedy

And now for something completely different: writing news.

I have absolutely no problem writing sad plots, moving plots, and other tragic stories. I got some feedback (sometimes from editors), telling me that this or that story had made the reader contacting me cry.

I've got the "I should invest in a company that sells tissue" routine well-oiled and working fine.

So, of course, my dream is to write comedy. <strategically places pillow on the desk before banging head on it - repeatedly>

My problem is that I've made "Your plot must be plausible and research the topics you mention so that you don't write anything wrong or stupid" my cardinal rule. It's brilliant for serious plots with a hint of History, but it's a knife in the back if you want to write comedy where so much relies on absurd situations.

I am training, though, and even my serious sci-fi novels have bits of barminess that are giving me hope.

I was working on something different this week, and to make the plots work, I had to ignore that lil' voice in my head that kept telling me "But that detail wouldn't work in real life!". I growled at the voice and pointed out that it was a detail, and that the plot works with that tiny inaccuracy (before snapping at my own brain "Deal with it!").

It's not much, but it's telling me that I can train my brain to accept absurd situations that could generate comic plots.

I predict months (years? ô.O) of training, though.

The Planet I Want [John Lennon & Yoko Ono: WAR IS OVER! (If You Want It)]

I dream of a planet where we're not killing our children. A planet where soldiers are paid to rescue kittens up fir trees, rebuild houses and schools (or build them from scratch in remote places), go deliver babies in the mountain, and dig wells (for water, not oil).

When is our species going to grow up and get rid of greed? We all kick the bucket, and no one takes their gold to the (non-existent) afterlife.

PS:bloody onions! It's getting worse...

If I Could Make a Wish...

... I'd like someone to find a way to have this on loop for all politicos (and excited, pointless thugs, as well) until they start using their three (collective?) brain cells to protect the future of our children.

PS: if I ever find out who was cutting all those onions whilst I was watching this...

To the Sociopath That Murdered Our Cat

Bloody sociopath,

I don't frigging know who you are, I'll probably never find out, and I'll certainly never meet you, but I learnt today that you deliberately hit our cat as she was crouching next to a wall.

This tells me that you're a fucking sociopath because we've now met the witnesses, and they told us that you aimed at our poor cat, and that you're either the luckiest son of a bitch in our neighbourhood or you've been doing this quite often, because you didn't hit our neighbour's wall.

I could ignore you.

I could just wish you some highly entertaining karma.

That would be way too easy.

When we were told that our cat was dead, I sincerely wished you to wrap your car around a pole, and I still mean it.

You're a sociopath, but perhaps there are bipeds that you like, and I hope they're going to break your heart in so many ways that words will have to be invented to count them.

I also hope that something nasty happens to you and you end up as frightened and in as much pain as our poor cat.

A gal can dream...

You've managed to wake up my inner Mrs Hyde, and if curses worked, I'd be going Egyptian on you.

May your organs betray you one by one, and may your body turn against you in horrid ways.

Our cat is in peace.

May you be in agony and hell for a very long time.

(I never pretended to be a nice gal)

[This post's doing to do zilch, but I can wish that sociopath some bloody karma]

Give Me Liberty or Give Me... The Right to Growl at You

If I were President of Earth (the measure is already implemented in my empire, because that was the right thing to do), I'd have Strategy classes in all schools from the age of 6.

That'd teach Earthlings to spot manipulators and bullies - and bad politicos (or are they covered with "manipulators"??). Anyway... elementary strategy seems like a good idea to fight against the sheeple problem.

It's a real need, because John and Jane Doe seem to not notice how their Liberty is eroded one millimetre at a time.

In the wake of the recent events in France, local politicos have been taking emergency measures - strategy reading of this: they must be seen doing something (even if that's just following the script that the bad guys are expecting - if I were President of Earth, I'd do something so unexpected that the bad guys would freeze long enough to be tackled by the good guys I'd have sent; and yes, I know what I would do).

As well, we're assaulted by pseudo-specialists on telly who yell that you're a bad Republican if you don't obey blindly (that started two days after the attacks) - and the politicos are already in election-mode (ballots casting in 2016 and 2017!).

As well, we're fed pseudo-polls that say that over 80% of the population is in favour of the increased security measures - strategy reading: if you seem to be against the additional security measures, you'll appear to be a minority, and that's not safe (in clear: we're going to make you stay silent by scaring you with invented or twisted polls).

Over the past days on Twitter, I spotted this: 

 

It's rather accurate, if scary.

There are good articles on the topic here (about political sheeple passing laws in emergency), here (about the testimony of an ex-hostage of the plonkers), or here (about the manipulation and lies amongst the bad guys themselves).

And from the 18th century, there's the infamous: "Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety."

I'm currently growling because of a detail. A little something. A bloody millimetre.

You see, when I go to work, we've got two guards at the door now, and I've got to show my badge - and open my handbag.

Legally, the guards have no special power over me. I open my bag because I'm a nice gal (and I need to go to work, and I can't wait for the coppers to show at the door to check my bag), but... the guards are forbidden to touch my bag. "Visual inspection", and that's it.

Of course, the bloke who checked my bag the past days puts his hand on the side of my bag - and he's doing that with everybody (I witnessed it myself and I asked my students).

I may end up being in trouble, but if I deal with the same bloke next time, I'll ask his boss to send him back to training.

If I allow this millimetre to escape me, what next? Registering as a slave for the bad guys? Allowing a male in a blue shirt to check if I'm hiding anything inside my body?

Sweet something. The bad guys must be laughing... but not for long. I'm going to defend all my legal millimetres, and I'll let no one limit my Liberty - it's already tough enough being a gal on this planet. I don't need more plonkers to bully me.

I feel like taking my favourite towel and raising my wand to get a lift home (yes, mixing fandoms. Problem?).

Dreaming of a Complicated Quilt

This is NOT a post about sewing at all.

It's about humanity, but using a pattern image.

The thing is, the recent events in Paris have made people start talking about community, and some people would like our world to be a piece of material with printed polka dots, in which the dots are separate communities that would have no contact with the next dot whatsoever.

Of course, that's one way to stay safe... but of course, with that, you never get out of your cave, and you die in the dark.

What I'm dreaming of is a lovely quilt. Different colours, different materials, but with defined limits so that "blue coton" doesn't "bleed" on "red satin" or "green wool".

I don't want a world of ghettos (my cave, my family, my tribe, my village, my street, my pub, my region, my country?). Whatever the size of these limits, I don't like them. I do understand that I'm not like a Zen monk or a farmer from... let's say Guatemala, but if we are civilized we can respect all our boundaries, agree to disagree on some topics, and live together in harmony (then again, I grew up a trekkyer, so I probably dream about the Federation too much).

If people insist on having polka dots on the fabric of humanity, we could have them close enough to talk to one another couldn't we? Or are most people so afraid of the mauve cashmere polka dot that just moved too close to them?

Are so many people really that afraid? Can't we talk and communicate and be better than frightened animals?

I'm probably too optimistic.

I know.

PS: I'd kick any polka dot/quilt square so hard that "it" would land on a polar bear if "it" told me to obey "it" and let "it" treat me like a slave. I'm optimistic, not stupid.

PTSD & Suicide

Oddly enough (karmically??), I've been watching a few things about PTSD and suicide over the past week.

It's not such a mystery. If you bury people under trauma and you trigger panic attack after panic attack, there comes a time when the idea of stopping the pain/finding eternal sleep starts sounding bloody appealing.

Until you've met the Beast of the Void, you cannot understand how cold is the blade that pierces your heart.

Right now, I know that I'm in the uh-oh zone. If things like the ones I describe in my prior post keep happening, I'm going to start looking at the river and lengths of rope with different eyes.

It's that easy to blow a fuse for good.

I think I'm going to resort to yelling at my plonkers, but one shouldn't have to be "growly" in order to counter the pettiness and ineptitude of a collection of village idiots who don't do what they're supposed to do (and some pretend or think - or whatever - that you're the one who's being nasty because you want them to do what they're supposed to do).

I'm shaking.

I'm furious.

I'm not going to be able to fall asleep at any decent hour because I'm stressed.

But...

I don't want to kick the bucket because of wankers who think someone died and made them kings. It's a pity to have to stop being nice and kind to prevent idiots from taking their toll on my poor health.

Gosh, I hope it's just a glitch, and not the preview for November!!

Of the Arrogance of Plonkers

I've just blown a fuse.

You see, I've been working on that file... I say "file", I should say "heap of manure". I've had bad files, but this one's the point of origin of all bad files.

And yet, I was massively diplomatic whilst reviewing it because I don't like to club bipeds to death if I can encourage them to keep working and improve. The culprit (who's the decerebrated cousin of the village idiot) is now fuming and demands that I apologize for being petty.

Erm... lemme think... No (or if I'm channelling my lil' sis': 'Drop dead, do that').

I've been asked by my coordinator to reconsider and be kinder (I was already kind enough, and see where it got me!).

Enough is enough... Then again, today was a festival: I had to finish the work of a so-called specialist because he'd done only half of what he was supposed to have done (can I get his wages?). Oh! Speaking of wages, the work I did on the yelling, offended plonker's manure isn't paid yet, and I'm not even sure it's ever going to be.

And this, Ladies & Gentlemen, is why it's good that I'm de facto co-CEO at job #3 because I can yell at plonkers and invite them to go have lunch in hell on the devil's lap for all eternity, coz I'm the co-boss (and the other two in our triumvirate are formatted like me).

Plonkers are such a fucking waste of time.

'Why Aren't You a Copycat?'

The question in the title of this post? Oh, it's just what a relative recently told me. Apparently, the secret of a good life is to do what my neighbours do.

Yeah...

Right.

I could read this as a "we want you to be happy (or happier than you already are)", but in fact, it all boils down to success and money.

Yesterday, I was treated to a lecture that was meant to bully me into doing what "that wonderful neighbour's doing to improve its life" because I "clearly need more money".

I'm not equipped to understand that need for greed, and I'm not equipped to care about what people I barely know do with their lives. If they're happy, good for them, but I'm me, myself, and I, and I don't want to copy a stranger in the faint hope to please DNA-related sharks.

My mistakes are mine, and my triumphs are mine, too.

It's days like this I'd like to head back home to Mars. I'm sure Curiosity and the other rovers are cool company...

Teamwork?

Either I'm massively unlucky or I'm cursed.

As well, I'm sure that proper, nice, working teams do probably exist on this planet; it's just that I've never met one.

My very first encounter with "serious" teamwork was a few aeons ago when I was in primary school. Our teacher took the whole class to a castle where we were taught about elementary architecture. Then, we were randomly put together in teams of five, and we had to draw the plan of the house of our dreams.

The one thing I remember vividly is that, when I objected to having a garage and I said we should all ride bikes (yes, at 9, I was already quite conscious that cars weren't that good for the planet), the bully in my group declared that I was an idiot, and I was properly and thoroughly ignored after that. I wanted to refuse to add my name to "our" project, but the teacher didn't listen to me because I "needed" the grade.

Let's fast forward to work as an adult.

I've been to countless meetings where the team boss listened to his voice as he read a leaflet that I could have read in five minutes.

I've had colleagues ignore me because they thought they were better than I. It wasn't a question of rank or brain... No, they were convinced that they knew, they were right, and I was the village idiot.

In big companies, I've seen Office 15 ignore Office 78 because there's a merry war going on between them. Too bad that the rest of us were caught in the crossfire, eh? 

So much for teamwork.

Oh, and there's the plonkers who control everything and makes everybody's lives miserable because they're incompetent and/or petty.

There may be no "I" in team, but if you're going to ignore me anyway, why should I use my lovely brain to help you since you're going to screw things up anyway?

I'm not going to give up though. It's got to be nice to work with people who value your knowledge, listen to you, and work together to be efficient and quick.

Victorian Era - The Reboot

I'm currently doing some research for something I want to write and that's going to be set in the late Victorian Era... and I realized that, even though our calendars say 2015, there are things that have almost gone back to how bad it was back in the 19th century.

We have food scandals (no more lead and chalk, but GMOs and horse meat in your lasagna anyone?).

The protection of the unions is getting weaker.

More and more people simply can't afford to heat their flats or houses (I think I remember reading about old people who died in unheated places because they couldn't afford to pay for that). If I merely have a look at the amount of money I've got to give to the Gas Company, that's theft (they use a higher rate in the heart of winter - for one week mid-December, I gave them as much money as I paid for a whole month in early spring). Perhaps there are too many bipeds on earth, but in the 21st century, no one should die because of the cold in a civilized country.

And then... the nastiest scam orchestrated by our politicos: retirement.

One of my cousins just got a file in the post about retirement rights, and everything about 'How long will you have to work?', which prompted my mother to ask me what my situation, retirement-wise, is. 

Charming.

I thought, 'I've got time!', but curiosity launched my inner cat on the Internet, and then... I realized the extent of the catastrophe.

I'll have to work (at least - if the politicos don't change the retirement laws again!) for 47 years, and I thought, 'Okay, I'm going to die before I can retire.'

You see, I didn't start working at 15.

I started working when I finally managed to find a job, and that was only after I got my M.St. (my M.A. wasn't even enough for me to find something! - Anything).

The year I sat for my PhD, I had three jobs (so I don't mind working hard and long hours), but... I didn't make enough money for that year to be counted (that's why I love so much the character of Martin Crieff in Cabin Pressure: I can relate).

After my PhD? Oh, that's soooo pretty on the curriculum! But I have to fend alone, and finding regular jobs is a task from hell (add to the mix the occasional boss who gives a job to a bloke coz he thought I was married and working just for fun, whilst the hired bloke is the breadwinner - I usually joke that I'm Christmas pudding, and dessert comes after bread).

You know, I think I wouldn't be so angry if I could expect more than two months of retirement before I kick the bucket (provided that I find a position where they won't renew my contract once I reach a certain age), and if the politicos who voted the laws weren't such hypocrites (some of them earn in a month what I earn in a year! And they can retire after five years! FIVE years!!!!!).

I'm also a bit angry because I've been advised to either become a politician (that'd be tough, as I'm honest, and I find all political parties to be the same brand of liars and I couldn't join any) or to find myself a wealthy husband. First, I'll have to remind my relatives that a wife could do as well... However, I'm not going to sell myself for financial security.

I'd rather swallow hot coal. Mind you, that might be a way to avoid freezing to death when I'm old and grey, when no one wants to employ me because I look like a mummified raisin, and when I can't afford to turn the heater on.

Dear Fairy in the Sky that doesn't exist, may I be a politico or a footballer in my next incarnation (the one that's never going to happen)? 

Modern Life 2.3

Yes, my sweets, we're getting daily updates now... because the situation is quite ridiculous.

MIA, the e-mail I should have received last night to confirm that I'm keeping my current Internet connection.

And then... Magic! The parcel that I was told had been delivered to a store where I could retrieve it Apparated to my post office, whose employees gave it to my building's caretaker (I'm parked in a council estate, and the lovely bloke told me that they dumped about forty parcels at his offices without warning).

So, first, the travelling parcel will go back to its "mummy", and... *drumroll* the council will change the optic fibre connection boxes in all buildings and replace them with one linked to a net provider that's not mine because they've made a deal with that other company. So I just cannot have an optic fibre netbox with my current company.

 

I love my plonkers disorganized, but I find the lack of communication in most places today quite frustrating.

Icing on the cake for today? I tried to phone my provider's hotline, but we were too many, and it disconnected me each time... until they closed the shop for the day - at 10pm instead of midnight as advertised on their website (they change the theme of their site every other month, but they don't bother updating the pages - or they're in India, and I'm entering a bad remake of The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel).

You know what?

I go OCD each time I deal with this, and that's too much of a waste of time for a Whisky Tango Foxtrot snafu.

A lovely gal promised me that my wish was duly noted. I'll believe in her professionalism in all this.

If not...

The Law is on my side and Mrs Hyde wants to have some fun.

Publishing News (Looking for...)

Soooooooo, my sweet (mostly silent) readers... I need your help.

I'm one of the three heads in an adventure that's going to become a publishing company.

We've got authors, we've got great ideas to create unique books, the website's taking shape (my cousin and I are working on it, and it looks grrrreat), but... [of course there's a "but"...] but we need to find a bank we can trust.

Don't die with laughter just yet, please!

What we need is to find a bank willing to work with us after signing an NDA (a "non-disclosure agreement"). We're not even asking for any money!

Since we're not even on the market yet, the usual answer is "A standard contract is good enough for you. What are you afraid of?".

A- I don't trust you, Cupcake

B- No one died and made you king

C- If you blab about our secrets, we can close the shop

If some of you are bankers (one never knows) or if you know one, it'd be nice to break that damn silence and help us.

Until we're sure that we won't get stabbed in the back, we can't start our business. Heeelp!

^_~

=>

Modern Life 2.2

Aaaand here's an update.

So soon?

Well, if I'm not being tricked, yes...

Things at work are still messy, but I can mutate and adapt. ô.O

The Internet thingy?

Well, I called my provider's hotline thrice.

#1: waited 20 minutes only to have the line be cut off "because of a technical problem" (I'm still the Empress of Mars apparently).

#2: waited 25 minutes after being told that "your call will be answered in less than a minute" (okay, I'm the one who decided to hang up this time).

#3: after 10 minutes, I got a human being to answer me.

I was so happy to get through that I could have kissed her!

I told her that their parcel was marked as "delivered" by Chronopost, but there was nothing in my box (not even a note to tell me the whereabouts of the ellusive parcel) - I was then informed that it had been delivered to a shop where I could retrieve it (very efficient, Chronopost! You can't even be bothered to check if I'm home or not. How [un]professional!).

I exclaimed that I didn't want to know where it was, as I'd asked for nothing, had learnt that the box has a noisy fan, and I like being able to sleep in my own flat, thank you very much.

She tried to convince me to have a technician come and install the box, but I refused.

Then.......... she said she was registering my wish on my file with them and I'd get a confirmation e-mail tonight.

I want to believe that this lovely lady didn't lie to me!

I want to believe that what could have been a nightmare is now behind me for good.

The optic fibre line would fully belong to my provider, whilst the ADSL line's still controlled by France Télécom (Orange, today). 

I don't care about the war between France Télécom and Free. My connection works, and I don't need a new one (with a fan from hell and disappointed reviews about the connection!).

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Sheesh! Bloody sheeple.

Modern Life 2.1

Long time no post...

The thing is, work in real life has been properly barmy, and I didn't have time to hop here (as well, most things weren't too bad - so nothing weird to post about, and nothing good and fluffy enough to share either; the average "blah").

Weirdness and a healthy dose of plonkers are threatening my health again (so this is more a testimony "in case I collapse" than an actual growl).

I'm currently dealing with someone who's not doing his job, which prevents me from doing mine properly (I'm resorting to MacGyverish tricks to... well, do my best in such circumstances). I sent an SOS (I didn't even bark at the plonker!), and what did I get? That thing barked at me, pretending that he was doing his best.

Oh.

Really?

Can I get his wages if I manage to do the job - on time?

More and more, I'm dealing with bipeds not doing their jobs and hissing if you say anything.

These days, there are works wherever I go. Just yesterday, I saw one bloke working on something in a street on my way to work. There were five other blokes around him - just watching him; the whole scene looked weird and wrong.

Cherry on my real life cake? My Internet provider wants me to use their optic fibre box.

That looks good on paper, but:

- I never said I was okay with that.

- I'm not even sure the fibre connection in my flat works.

- if there's any issue, they won't help much.

- I've read accounts on the net saying that fibre isn't that stable with the netbox they want me to use

- the box has a noisy fan (some people had to change providers because of it!).

About that last point, my next words may sound a lil' bit extreme, but... I don't want to die. Since the downstairs A/C debacle, I can no longer stand fan noise - and I'd collapse, for good, with a noisy fan 24/7 in my flat.

Sweet Merlin! I hope I can stop the fibre fiasco - and manage to get what I need to work properly at Job #1...

ô.O

Back to St John's wort (and I really didn't need that!).

Another Interesting Music Video

They were featuring in my last post, and they're back with yet another creative video. The singer's giving us something quite interesting, and I'm jealous of the pianist (to say the least!).
I give you SEKAI NO OWARI with 「SOS」: 

Creative Japanese Music Videos

I've been watching some JPop Top 20, and I must admit that I hadn't been watching music videos recently.

I had a look at the MV styles in Europe and in the US, and I must say that I find Japanese MVs quite original.

Here are two examples to illustrate what I mean (and I needed some fluffy, non-growly things in my life, too).

Here goes:

和楽器バンド (Wagakki Band) with  「暁ノ糸」 (Akatsukino Ito)

and:

SEKAI NO OWARI with 「ANTI-HERO」

Passive Acceptance/Active Fight

Apart from the fact that the situations that are currently making me growl reek of victim-blaming, some people seem quite eager to roll over and welcome barbarians in their beds - or tell others to shut up and 'take it, coz that's life and you can't change it'.

If I were in a war zone, things would get nasty (let's face it, I'd kill - and may end up being killed for being unsubmissive [Pretty normal with my DNA]). When I read bipeds saying that people should flee instead of fighting when some genitalia-deprived plonkers invade somewhere, that makes my blood boil, and I always want to ask them how they'd like it if the aforementioned plonkers landed in their boring suburbs.

As well, we're getting more and more articles describing what women (of all ages, shape, colour and styles) have to go through when they go outside. Then, you get bipeds suggesting to:

- ignore the genitalia-deprived heckling plonkers

- get a life, coz that's not important

- stop whingeing

- stop complaining coz men have it tough, too (writer's note: we're not denying this, you bloody owner of just three brain cells, so will you stop changing the topic and bringing the focus back on you, you, and you)

- avoid any kind of confrontation with the genitalia-deprived heckling plonkers, coz that could be dangerous

That last point makes me sooooooooooooooo angry. What am I supposed to do if a huge bloke decides that he's got the right to grope me? Thank him? Walk away?

Sorry (still just being well-educated), but if anyone thinks that he (or she - I'm all for full equality) can touch me without permission, I'll fight back. You groped my boobs? Fine, kiss your hazelnuts goodbye. That's fair trade in my book.

I can imagine bipeds thinking 'but it's dangerous!' or 'but you'd be breaking the law!'. Sorry (points to three lines above), but I'm just defending myself, and I shan't roll over for anyone (yes, that's would potentially get me in trouble, but with each passing year, my fangs grow longer and my allergy to stupidity lasts for twelve months a year; I can't help it).

I know it's easier to avoid conflicts (each situation needs to be analysed, and choices need to be made accordingly), but sometimes one needs to stand up to bullies and re-educate them (with a poker if need be).

Gosh! In a few decades (if I'm not run over by a text-sending driver), I'm going to be quite a growling old lass.

PS: I wrote this last week, but I didn't have time to edit it until tonight (and I'm so tired that there might still be a few silly things here and there), and I'm quite happy that five men on a train have just demonstrated that doing nothing isn't going to help in any way.

Opposable Thumbs Aren't a Licence to Kill

I'm quite furious, so don't mind the cosmic-sized growl (and do click back if you believe that bipeds are the crème de la crème on our planet - oh, or if you like politically correct crap).

I recently signed a petition to try to save a Mamma Bear who was accused of killing an off-trail hiker. I've just read that she was slaughtered.

This is what happened and here's a very good statement on the topic.

The first to say that 'she was just an animal, and a dangerous one!' gets Gibbs-smacked with a rolling pin to Kingdom come.

She was a good mother, who was executed (and her two orphaned cubs may be killed or sold to slavery).

The whole situation made me furious: the arrogance of the bipeds, who think they own the rock (no, you don't, Cupcakes; you share it with all the other lives on it), and the officials hiding behind pseudo-science in order to sell their 'We had to kill her' to the average sheeple who'll think "Oh, well, if there was no other way... They know what they're doing; it's their job" (I want to cuff the idiotic sheeple and bite the officials for resorting to slaughter).

And then, there's the first comment on the page of the second link I just gave you, where a delightful biologist resorts to comparing apple and cheese by mentioning a story where a bear, in town (fake gasp & Sarcasm font firmly on), invaded someone's house. Hashtag Crikey.

I find it revealing that the first comment talks about a completely different scenario.
If I were to find a bear in my flat, I'd wonder how he got in (we don't leave our doors open where I'm parked), and then I'd run outside before calling people equipped to deal with him (we don't keep firearms either - we have no need for them).

It must be cool to think that you're so special that you can invade an animal's territory and have it killed if it nibbles you, but the animal cannot visit your house. 'Oh, nooooo! It's an animal that must stay where it belongs!' Well, sorry, Cupcake, but it belong on this planet, just like you. You're not special because you can hold a can of soda or load a gun - not in my book, at least.
If I were to venture in Yellowstone, I'd be on the bears' turf, and they can do whatever they want. If I'm stupid enough to not follow the safety rules and I end up turned into bear snack, that's karma (and probably a spot of Darwinism).

Seriously, do read Dr Bekoff's page (still link #2); it's enlightening on many levels.

A very good mother was massacred because some bipeds wanted to punish her for being a bear.

All bipeds stepping outside (parks and forests aren't just enough, as the average plonker will go scratch the head of a cobra for a good selfie) should sign standard waivers to prevent future slaughters.

I really wish I could keep Curiosity company; things must be quiet on Mars!

Whisky. Tango. Foxtrot. (or the Twitter White Background Growly Post)

I've just changed this blog's background colour to make it less aggressive (sorry it took me so long to change it for softer tones!). Pastel pink is better for the eyes (if you want to change things on your own computers), but pastel blue works nicely, too.

Why am I doing this today? Because when I went to Twitter, and I tried to change my settings to bring my wallpaper back, well... it didn't work. I quite like Twitter, but that blinding white background sucks, and I'll log off sine die if that stupidity goes on.

Good news for you, if so... I'll blog a lot more.

I hope the Twitter boys know what they're doing (though I doubt it)...

More Windows 10 (from Afar)

Soooo, I had been growling in advance about Windows 10, but now I'm more and more convinced that I'll have to go look for a small shop where I can have Windows 7 installed on a machine the next time I need a computer because the more I read about 10, the more I want to slap the Microsoft boys (quite possibly with a marble rolling pin).

Some people could say that they have our best interest at heart, but anyone buying that is ready to kiss the bottom of my robes coz I'm the Empress of Mars...

Now I read that you cannot turn off the Windows Update (coz "security" and yada, yada, yada).

Piece of news, boys: I (me, myself, and my Imperial persona) am the BOSS. THE ONE WHO DECIDES. GOT IT? Or is that too much for your three brain cells?

Of course, there seems to be a way to bloody turn Windows Update off (read down the page, there's a trick, and have a look at the comments for an extra tip to not have the thing turn itself back on again), but you know what, boys? Getting a new computer used to be about installing our programmes, customizing the desktop and the style of the files and folder and... basta. Since 8, you need a degree in computer engineering to make the changes, find the hacks and get the computer to do what you want.

I can do it, but not everybody can (Hell! I'm the 'tech' for all my family!).

I know the Microsoft boys (pardon my French!!) don't give a fuck about anything I can say, write, blog about, or growl, but even the average sheeple has a point where a last straw can make it walk away from the cliff.

No one's too big to fail (as people with a brain know), and if it fucking ain't broke, don't fix it.

I have a few months to investigate Linux, too...

Windows 10?

And there's yet another OS coming to the market.

And we've got IT journalists telling us what's new, what's good, what's bad about it.

And we've got muppets commenting on the articles written by the aforementioned journalists and telling us that they've been testing that OS for months, and we should feel honoured to be able to get a new, better OS.

Yea.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Dear Microthingy and Microthingy employees,

here's the list of what I want on my computer:

1 - the ability to customize everything, like we could do with XP, because your pre-made jokes that you call "Customization" just aren't enough for me.

2 - the possibility to DEACTIVATE auto-arrange without needing to install a crack for it. No, boys, you don't know best. I need to be able to put my work files where I want them inside my folders. Alphabetical order doesn't work for me.

3 - the possibility to save my files and create an image for my computer. I know, it's in the machines up to Windows 8. It's with 8.1 that you fucked up on that (I'm not buying an external hard drive to please your bullying tendencies, but be warned that if the lack of image for the system fucks my work computer, I'll get the Voodoo dolls out).

4 - Full compatibility for my old programmes (I've been with you for a long time, don't even try to go 'bohica' on me).

In option:

- the possibility to get rid of the whole "Metro" feeling could be good. You see, I work on my computer, I don't play games or chat or whatever with it, so having all that crap in a sub-folder that I'd never activate would be pretty cool.

Since I'm currently learning to code, I could start thinking that looking at other ways to work on a computer could be a very good idea. You're not too big to fail, guys. Bloody listen to your customers, and don't try to go 'Oh, shinyyyyyyy!' on us.

Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot, Twitter!

A few days ago, I opened my Twitter Home, and instead of being greeted by a lovely photo of Vincent van Gogh's Long Grass with Butterflies, I got blinding white.

Instinctively, I asked a search engine what was going on, and I discovered that Twitter has decided that everybody should have white backgrounds (and some people suppose that's to pave the way for full-page ads).

First, I *am* a creature of habit, and once I've customized something I don't change it often - if at all.

Then, I've been working for years on computers, and back when Microthingy allowed us (with no additional encoding fuss!!!) to customize all the colours on our screens, I'd tested all colours and hues. Though I positively hate that colour, I must say that the best, most soothing choice if you're going to spend hours reading stuff on a screen is pastel pink.

White? Best and quickest way to kill your eyes and get headaches.

So since Twitter started smoking the lawn, each time I want to check my timeline, I hop by "Settings" first, and I (fucking momentarily) bring back my background image... because I like it, and because I don't think the Twitter guys would finance my glasses.

It's bloody annoying to have to change something that I want on my account, but as long as I can do it, I will.

If the collective bunch of arrogant plonkers decide to fully take the option away, I'll log off for good.

I've already seen a few sheeple say, 'But it's free, and they can do what they want with their site.'.

Yea.... And this growling Empress of Mars says that she likes customization more than anything, and Twitter stock may be disappointing to some, but the whole thingy is quite valuable to even more people. They're not providing us with timelines for free; we're having fun, and they're making money.

Big companies have fallen before, because they thought they knew what their audience wanted, and when people complained, they didn't listen.

Guys! You need to pay attention and not think someone died and made you kings.

I would miss Twitter, but I love my eyes a lot more.

A Blackbird Called Speedy

For once, there shall be no growl in this post.

It's all about one of the birds that I know.

The sparrows are too shy. The pigeons are barmy. The magpies ignore me. The crows are too busy trying to evict the magpies from their nests. Most of the blackbirds are wary of the bipeds.

Then... there's Speedy; he's an intrepid blackbird who's not afraid (he's not even too afraid of the cats, and I've had to protect him a few times).

We've called him Speedy, because he's quite fast when he hops on the ground, looking for insects and worms.

If he doesn't end up on the menu of a cat, I hope to befriend him. He's already coming very close to me - even when I'm mowing the lawn because he's understood that the mowed grass turns into a smorgasbord for a rich variety of things he can eat. He's either nutty or very brave, but I've found him two meters away from the running lawnmower, looking at me with insects and worms in his bill.

If he doesn't share DNA with Tokyoite crows, I'll try to take a picture of him.

[Update on the photo front: he's not shy, but the sun is hell with my digital camera, and I'll have to catch him in the shade, and veeeeeeeeeeeery close to me.
I hope to be able to update this post with a portrait of Speedy...]

Life & Art & Abuse & Boycott

I love documentaries, and I love Auntie Beeb.

I quite like Victoria Coren Mitchell. I like her in Only Connect, and when I spotted How to Be Bohemian, I watched the three parts of this documentary.

First, it was very interesting, and I always like to learn new things.

Then, in the second part, when Mrs Coren Mitchell talked about Eric Gill (a man I'd never heard of until that moment - because I'm still not omniscient or plugged into some Akashic Records), I wanted to give her a hug and thank her for no longer wanting to see some of his art after learning that he'd abused his young daughter and that he'd used her to inspire him.

Apparently, Eric Gill couldn't keep his equipment in his trousers (so to speak, since it seems that he took to wearing dresses and robes - to be always ready??). He screwed many, and on his list, his own sister can be found.

All right. I'm not going to be your average prude, but I can't help imagining a man manipulating his sibling into having sex with him rather than having her agreeing to fuck her brother. But, let's try to be hugely tolerant, and let's say two consenting adults had some fun together. Not our business. Fine.

But... according to the man himself, if his diary's to be believed, he raped at least two of his daughters. There is no possible way we, as humans, can hear that and not wish to send a creature like Gill into complete oblivion (if I could go Egyptian on the guy and erase him from History, I'd be tempted).

But then, Mrs Coren Mitchell interviewed Fiona MacCarthy, a biographer of Gill, and then I realized that when it comes to standing by the victims, we're not out of the wood.

Mrs Coren Mitchell asked if we should know the background of a work of art. If the life of the "artist" goes into illegality, shouldn't we stop the person? Being an artist doesn't give anyone a licence to abuse or hurt anyone else (artists can drink, smoke, and snort powder as much as they want; I don't care - as long as they don't try to force me to join or attempt to break my favourite vase).

So, here, we're talking about a man who raped his own children. Even if he had a brain tumour that could explain his vagrant prick, he was an abusive manipulator and a sex predator in my book.

And here comes the immunity card for him: he's an artist. <insert fake gasp here>

When asked if the real life and the art should be viewed as separate, Mrs MacCarthy made me cringe.

     Fiona MacCarthy: I can separate them. And I think that it's the kind of dichotomy in human behaviour that somebody who can behave so reprehensibly can produce these works of supreme art.      

     Victoria Coren Mitchell: Something like the Girl in Bath though, the images he made of his daughter, those erotic images of a naked child. I'm afraid it makes me want to get in a time machine and kneecap him [that's the part that made me want to hug her! I'd lend her a hand!]. Do you find those images beautiful?

       FMC: I still find them beautiful, yes. And if he was a less good artist, I don't think I would bother with him. I don't think that I would be at all concerned with his sexual life or at all interested in it. I think that’s the testing thing. It's this curious tension that produces the rather particular beauty of those images, and I think, perhaps, even that one understands them more deeply by knowing the history.

    VCM: But you might say, well, knowing that he abused his children in this way; yes, one understands better what he was doing in that drawing, and in understanding it, one wants to reject it, no?

     FMC: Well, I wouldn't say that, you see. I think that people who try to police works of art according to what they believe to be the political views or the sexual behaviour of the artist, then they rule out an awful lot of great art. What about Wagner? Do you switch off Wagner because you disapprove of his anti-Semitic views?

       VCM: Yes!

       FMC: You do!? You switch him off!

       VCM: Yeah, I realize that strikes you as terribly philistine…

       FMC: Yes!

      VCM: And I do know it's complicated, I love the poetry of Yeats; he was in his own weird way a sort of Nazi sympathizer. I know these things are complex, and it’s very hard to make an absolute rule, but when I look at those images of Gill’s young daughter, and I know that he abused her; I think it's not something I want to see again.

      FMC: Well, I think that this is a very, very narrow view of art, of society, and that one can’t be so dogmatic. One has to try and take it on board.

This is not victim-blaming, but when someone says, 'Oh, but that Artist is soooooooo good that I can ignore the fact that he (or she) [or it, for all I care] is skinning kittens alive for fun.', then that is deciding to not condemn the fellow biped for doing something bad because that biped is doing something else that you like.

It's simple enough, you put yourself in the shoes (or the paws) of the victim, and you think long and hard how you'd like the rest of the world to come to your rescue. Do you want the coppers to come and stop the abuse, or do you want an art critic or a fan to tell you to be proud of your abuser because he's suuuuuuuuuuuuuuch a grrrrrrreat Aaaaartist? Go on, answer that one.

No amount of genius justifies throwing a victim under the "art" bus.

That's true for Gill. That's true for any abuser who happens to be an artist, like that so-called writer-actor-director who was accused by his step-daughter (the girl is toast in that art world, and the man's still working and getting trophies).

Mind you, that's not limited to art. Have some money (a few billions should work), and you can get away with abusing, say, your step-daughter - the judge will only order you to serve four months - two if you're a nice bloke, coz you lead a "productive life", and your family's important for the community.

When I go shopping, it can take me time because I check that I'm not going to give money to companies that have despicable business habits and/or nasty bosses.

I do the same with artists. I've got a blacklist.

There are enough decent geniuses to entertain us (I didn't know Gill before I watched that documentary, but when I saw his art... I didn't feel a thing. To me, he's in the "nothing to write about" category, and now that I know what he did to his children, I'll ignore anything by him. Not because I'm a philistine - I'm not, but because he's not that good, and as a man, which is inseparable from the artist, he was a monster).

I'll still enjoy the works of any drunkard, drug addict, libertine, but pardon me, I'll draw the line at rapist... and no amount of justification will make me agree with you if you want to keep enjoying the works of any biped guilty of that crime.

That's not a "very, very narrow view of art, of society", that's the position of a survivor who knows what it's like to be in the claws of a monster with the rest of the world ignoring your plight. So gimme another tune, Cupcake, and behave like a decent human being and shun the monsters - quite often, they're overpriced brats who are selling you some invisible cloth. The sooner you see that the king is naked, that their art is empty, and that you're standing by a plonker who's dragging you into the abuse, the better.

*curtseys, & hops off the soapbox*

Case in Point: That Honesty Thingy

All right, this post's probably going to drip with sarcasm (a lot more than here). And there may be a few swearwords coz I'm exhausted and furious (and also why not?!)

So, we're supposed to trust bankers 'because there's a confidentiality clause in all contracts'. But of course! And they never, ever play Money Russian roulette with our hard-won cash. Nope. Never. And their websites are so tight that they're never, ever hacked by nasty people. Nope. Never. And they're all soooooo honest that they never, ever discuss the issue a customer can have just loud enough for everyone in the lobby to know that Mr X or Mrs Z are currently in a bit of a jam. Nope. Never.

If people bipeds were honest, we wouldn't have so many fishwrappers putting their noses in the lives of so many people (celebrities or not), because that need to gossip and blab would not exist, but... No... Bipeds need to open their big mouths and talk about things (whether they actually know anything on any topic or not).

It's got to be a mix of being naturally nosey and needing to feel important for one second.

I subscribed to quite a few newspapers' newsletters (probably too many because the state of the world has a slight tendency to make me growl - and wish to kick-start a few bipeds' brains with my favourite rolling pin), and just this morning, I got to read something that made my blood boil. Something that proves that most bipeds just cannot be trusted.

10:56AM: I get a 'News Alert' e-mail from The Washington Post about a possible terrorist attack in France, and in the summary included in the message, I read: 'A French security official says an attack and explosion at a gas factory in southeastern France has left one person dead. The official, who spoke on condition of anonymity because she wasn’t authorized to talk to the news media, said the dead person was found decapitated outside the entrance to the factory.'

When I clicked on the 'Read more' link, I was brought to an almost empty page. No more mention of the blabbing official.

12:41PM: I get the full newsletter from that newspaper. The first article's about that attack, but the official's unofficial statement is no longer mentioned (perhaps because more accurate and recent info have reached the journalists).

I'm very sorry (just being polite here), but the French government wasn't going to try to cover up a murder, and so the official isn't a kind of whistle-blower or whatever. We're talking about someone, who was sworn to secrecy, but who could not keep her mouth shut - be it to feel important for a moment or to deal with that urge to gossip, I don't care. That biped betrayed the trust of her fellow citizens, and of her boss - for a mention in the newspaper, which she cannot even enjoy since she was supposed to keep her bloody mouth shut.

Gossipmonger is a word that's American, but I must admit that I like it better than its British equivalent for once. Gossip/gossiper sounds like a disease, but the "-monger" part in the American form makes me think of an arrogant plonker that thinks it's got the right to talk about what the neighbours do.
That gossipmonger makes me picture someone in "Ye Olde Gossip Shoppe" trying to attract more nosey busybodies so they can chat about what the others are doing: 'Come here! Freeeeeesh gossip! Hot from the oven! I've seen nothing, but I'll tell you everything! I've got no right to judge my neighbours, but I'll tell you what kind of sinners they are according to my own perfect (and frankly, the only possible ones) values! Freeeeeeeesh gossip! For free!'

Sheesh.

Mind your business, Cupcake, and do something useful.

Oh, and when you're bound to secrecy, have a bit of respect for your own word and keep your fucking mouth shut...

And a sodding banker is expecting me to trust him?

*snorts*

Few bipeds can be trusted, and they need to be punished when they commit a betrayal (and they probably need to grow up).

Quod erat demonstrandum.

Spelling Deontology and Honesty

I find it rather arrogant that professionals tell me, 'Oh, but there's deontology. We're bound to secrecy, and you could sue us if we betrayed you. There's no need for a Confidentiality Agreement, you see.'

Yes, I see.

I see that if I were to be betrayed, I'd have to hire a solicitor to sue whoever had spilled the beans, and since the culprit would be working for a huge company with a gazillion of solicitors, I'd be - pardon my French - screwed.

I mean, we can't even trust solicitors (Chris Gossage and Judith Callegari anyone? I just can't forget about that betrayal).

And that's why Confidentiality Agreements/Non-Disclosure Agreements were invented, because if the deontology-bound biped that you were supposed to trust goes blabbing about your secrets, the signed agreement does take you to court, but the judge automatically rules in your favour. There's no escape for the traitor; he or she gets to give you money because he or she couldn't keep his or her mouth shut, and it's only fair that you get compensation for being stabbed in the back - and it's only fair to not have to fight in court and have to prove that the betrayal is having consequences on your activity.

If some bipeds were not such despicable creatures, yes, we could trust one another, but since it's obviously not the case, signed agreements are a must (sad, but true).

Needless to say, I won't work with people I don't know who ask me to trust them, but who offer no guarantee whatsoever (if you sign an NDA, and you do not blab, there's nothing to lose). 

Better safe than sorry, as my grandmother used to say.

Panem et... "musique"

The year, 2015.

First day of summer.

Beautiful weather.

And yet, I am going to growl (not because it's a Sunday, and it's usually the day I have time to do so).

Today's the Fête de la Musique, and some copper has AGAIN given permits to two bars to have both their live bands performing on the street, with sound systems, and as the day goes by, the bands are becoming louder.

I had a bit of hope earlier as Bar #2 installed their "stage" a bit late, and Bar #1 had first invited a band that wasn't too loud (the singer couldn't carry a tune to save his life, but that's a tradition with that bar's musical guests).

Now, I've got two bands competing for the attention of the sheeple.

I should probably take this as an opportunity to understand why the Romans were so fond of the circus, but my brain's melting through my ears because of the awful din that's being made outside (and I'd be more interested in a Voodoo dolls crash course right now).

I'm not the only one growling because their fun is making this day horrible and unpleasant, but since there are two bars making an awful lot of money selling food and beer to the sheeple, the ones who'd like to have some Mozart on their MP3 players will have to shut up and stand the noises whilst they last.

I'll have to stand it, but I'm going to call the coppers' headquarters first thing tomorrow in order to know why there were two permits. In Rome, at least, no one brought the circus to your flat if you wanted some quiet, and the first to tell me 'But it's just for a day and just a few hours.' gets to meet my rolling pin...

Wallpaper with Pattern Match Trick / Truc pour pose de papier peint avec raccord

I’ve just finished changing the wallpaper in my dining room, and I’m so happy with the trick I used that I decided to share it with the world.  Let’s imagine that you’ve found some wallpaper that you love, but… the awesome guy who created that beautiful design decided that the pattern would match every 50cm, and according to the calculator on the website where you’ve found the paper of your dreams, you’re going to need to buy approximately the whole store. First, do not trust the calculator. Grab some piece of paper, a pencil, and do a spot of maths. Honestly, if I’d worked the traditional way (pasting roll by roll), I’d have had to buy nine rolls instead of just five (and with the price tag on a roll, that does make a difference). I’m sharing this trick to help my fellow humans, but you’ll have to work on a couple of things yourself – and always pay attention to what you’re doing. First, maths. If your room’s already wallpapered, count how many lengths you’ve got on each wall (otherwise… more maths, my sweets!). I’ve got six lengths and a hair on my two widest walls; I’ve got a bow window, and the wall opposite the window has five lengths. Once I saw that, I bought five rolls; do the maths for your own room. Open all the rolls you’ve bought, find the matching patterns on them all in order to have the most efficient way to deal with them and number them with your pencil inside the roll; also add an arrow on the back of the paper to know which way you’re supposed to put the length on the wall (when you’ll be dead on your feet, that’ll be quite helpful!). Unroll all the rolls a bit and make sure that your patterns match on all of them. Cut the pieces that you can’t use (the longest piece I had to cut was 20cm long, and there was one roll where I didn’t have to cut anything). From that moment on, you can paste almost all your lengths. Extra trick 1: I live in an old building, and there are lengths of wood on all salient corners, which allowed me to paste the paper on the wall opposite the window without being bothered by the matching pattern on the wall next to it. That may be a good idea to get rid of a few matching pattern nightmares. Have a look at my “fantabulous” drawing to help you. When you’re done with the lengths you’ve pasted, you just have to work on the few lengths that remain (if you play poker with the rolls, you may not have too much to cut to reach the matching pattern again). Extra trick 2: unless your walls are dramatically worse than mine, just start pasting the first length against the vertical side. Extra trick 3: in all the videos I watched on the net, and on the advice sheet with each roll of paper, everybody says to cut a few extra centimetres up and down the length. One centimetre’s enough (unless your walls are wavy, but then you measure the highest point, and that’s where you cut). Extra trick 4: everybody talks about cutting the extra paper with a cutter, but scissors work nicely, too, even if you have to unpaste the length for a moment. Happy wallpapering!

Je viens tout juste de finir la tapisserie dans ma salle à manger et je suis tellement fière du truc que j’ai utilisé que j’ai décidé de le partager avec le reste du monde. Imaginons que vous avez trouvé le papier peint de vos rêves, mais… le brillant designer de cette petite merveille a collé un raccord de 50 cm et d’après le calculateur de rouleaux du site où vous avez trouvé la merveille, il va vous falloir acheter la boutique ou presque. Déjà, ne faites pas confiance au calculateur. Attrapez un bout de papier, un crayon et faites un peu de maths. Sérieusement, si j’avais fait les choses traditionnellement (un rouleau après l’autre), j’aurais dû acheter neuf rouleaux au lieu de cinq (et au prix du rouleau, ça fait une différence).  Je partage ce truc pour rendre service, mais il faut planifier deux, trois trucs et toujours faire attention. D’abord, les maths. Si votre pièce a déjà du papier peint, faites le compte des lés sur chaque mur (autrement, à vos machines à calculer, les enfants !). J’ai six lés et une poussière sur mes deux plus longs murs. J’ai une bow window, et le mur du fond a cinq lés. Après ce décompte, j’ai acheté cinq rouleaux. Faites les comptes pour votre pièce. Ouvrez-les tous, cherchez les raccords les plus proches pour avoir une séquence de pose et numérotez-les au crayon à l’intérieur du rouleau et mettez une flèche indiquant dans quel sens vous posez les motifs sur chaque rouleau (quand vous serez sur les rotules et ne saurez plus votre nom, ça vous sauvera la mise !). Déroulez un peu tous vos rouleaux et mettez les raccords au même niveau. Coupez les morceaux excédents (le plus long morceau que j’ai coupé mesurait vingt centimètres et sur un des rouleaux, je n’ai rien coupé du tout). À partir de ce moment-là, vous pouvez poser presque toutes vos longueurs de papier. Truc supplémentaire 1 : j’habite un vieil immeuble où il y a des baguettes sur tous les angles saillants, ce qui m’a permis de poser le papier sur le mur du fond sans m’occuper des motifs sur le mur qui le rejoint. Ça peut être une bonne idée pour vous faciliter la vie au niveau raccord. Jetez un œil à mon « super » dessin pour vous aider. Quand vous avez fini avec les lés que vous avez posés, vous n’avez plus qu’à travailler sur les quelques longueurs qui restent (en jouant à la belote avec vos rouleaux, vous ne devriez pas avoir trop de papier à couper pour être raccord avec le papier déjà posé). Truc supplémentaire 2 : sauf si vos murs sont cent fois pires que les miens, suivez simplement un bord vertical pour commencer à le poser. Truc supplémentaire 3 : toutes les vidéos de pose que j’ai regardées et les conseils sur les rouleaux vous disent de couper quelques centimètres de plus en haut et en bas. Un centimètre de plus suffit (sauf si vos murs ont le mal de mer, mais, là, vous coupez un centimètre de plus après avoir mesuré la plus grande longueur dont vous avez besoin). Truc supplémentaire 4 : tout le monde parle de couper l’excédent de papier au cutter ; les ciseaux ne sont pas mal non plus, même s’il faut décoller trente secondes. Bonne pose !