Chivalry?... What Chivalry?

Even before we were stuck at home, I work a lot at night (it's quiet and I can focus on plot bunnies and research).

Since the weather's a tad nicer these days, when I do go to bed (between 5 and 7 am), I open my blackout curtains, open the window and listen to the birds (the seagulls make me believe that I'm by the sea - I'm not).

Sometimes, I see people going to work this early.

Last night, there was this young woman walking uphill (either she works at the nearby hospital - or somewhere - or she was going to catch a bus or the tube). Walking downhill was this young bloke.

The pavement there is very, very narrow. Now, guess who moved to walk on the road...? Yup! The young lady.

Of course, the traffic so early and with so few cars around was not really an issue, but the boy did not even try to do anything. He just kept walking as if he owned the pavement.

It's not that chivalry's dead. I think it was mostly ever only in books to make a few blokes look good - and yes, I'm tired and angry. Why?

Compassion, eh?

One of my mother's neighbours hopped by to see if she needed anything and she's grateful for the kindness.

Awesome.

My only issue with that bloke is that he's a weird bunny (and that's the super polite way of saying it - I could be waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more colourful about that biped).

Fast-forward to today, and Mother noticed a new wall by her fence, behind the house, near the building for which the neighbour never got a permit (if he got one, bribery was involved as what he's done is fucking illegal through and through, but - hey! - what do I know? Well, I know the law, that's what!). 

Mother thinks that I must have missed the wall the last time I was there (three weeks ago! And after doing some stuff near that very fence?!).

Do you know what I believe, dear Readers? I believe that the neighbour came to talk to my mother to check if she'd noticed the wall. Full stop.

Now that he's got his info, he's gone. He never cared about her; he wanted to check something.

I'm not going to forget that one either and he doesn't know what I'm planning for him... one day.

Wanted: a TARDIS & a Klingon

I'd very much like to go back to this afternoon... and have a huge Klingon at my disposal.

The thing is, as I was waiting for my bus, reading a book in a "foreign" language and generally minding my own business, a bloke in his fifties started talking to me in what I thought was Russian.

Not understanding him and not wanting to talk to him, I ignored him.

He kept bugging me, invaded my space to check what I was reading.

It turns out that he was a Romanian coming from Sicily (like I fucking cared).

He wanted to know my age (keep dreaming, Cupcake), where I was born... Good thing he spotted my wedding ring, but that miserable wanker just had to take one glove off to touch my hair (who fucking died and made him king?).

I was so shocked that I froze. 

Because I'm 5'2".

Because he was much stronger than I.

Because I needed to catch that bus and simply couldn't walk away.

Because we were a foot from a busy boulevard and I didn't fancy ending up under a taxi or a bus in case he got angry and decided that pushing me could be fun.

Because I knew that I'd be the one in trouble if I slapped him (or even just his hand).

And this is when I want a TARDIS and a Klingon. The TARDIS to go back to that moment in time, the Klingon to lend me his bat'leth and have a quieting presence by my side.

I know that we have swell, rad, and lovely allies amongst the XY community, but no bloke will ever understand that kind of panic us, women, experience on the street when some entitled plonker ignores our signals and goes on with his own agenda.

The next plonker I meet, for there will be another one... I might yell a bit, just to let some steam off.

 

Silent Banker

Hello, dear Readers!

We've got a slight case of "We are not amused" going on.

Our Editor-in-chief, my (usually patient and sweet) cousin, sent the links about the (local equivalent of the) Senate and Home Office stating that she is right to our new contact at our bank (over a decade with them for both of us, and not a single problem!), and... nothing.

We do not know if he's angry about the Law lesson, if he's asking his superior what to do with the mean gal who's sending him official texts showing that the bank is ignoring the Law, or if he's doing his job and opening us an account so we can start our online activity.

Not a clue...

Since none of us is a fan of silence... I contacted another bank in the night, got an answer this morning, and handed the baby to Cousin Editor-in-chief. Now... we wait.

I'd like to officially declare here that it is exhausting to deal with people who aren't even competent at their jobs. The number of arrogant cavepeople trying to bully their way through life is quite tiring.

I'll keep you posted on our launch.

Love,

Dru

Victim Blaming Is Alive and Well

I really should read fewer newspapers.

I really should not read the comments.

I was reading a new article about the latest "scandal" about a courageous rape victim who was betrayed by the sentencing judge (because the culprit, as a fellow star athlete, deserves to not be properly punished).

It's this New York Times article (it's good, and I've got nothing to say against the journalist).

No, my problem is with whichever plonker picked a victim-blaming comment as a NYT Picks:

There are other similar comments on the thread. Of course. Gosh! My Sarc font is on again!

It's not about showing both sides of an argument. There's NO argument; one does not betray a victim yet another time by giving "air time" to a caveman. Full stop.

Oh, and for good measure, here's the mug of the culprit's protector judge:

I could add something about the letter that the culprit's father wrote, but there's no point in risking my lovely brain cells. Go read about that other caveman; he's a piece of... something.

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.

'Special' Bipeds

'It's my birthday, so I can bug the rest of the world because I'm soooooo special'.

'It's our wedding party, and we can be as loud as we want. Yes, in the building where we work because we're a couple of McScrooge, and we didn't want to rent a place with proper sound insulation'.

I loathe bipeds that think their special occasion (or the phase of the moon, or their being such gifts to mankind) allows them to ignore the Law, and to annoy the rest of the world.

That amount of selfishness is making my blood boil.

Guess what? The catering wankers downstairs (I'd rather swallow hot coal than go eat there) are celebrating two candidates for the next divorce (that's what we call newly-weds in my family).

I was watching telly, but I had to switch to listening music with headphones on my computer. I still have a bit of work to do (thanks to the time difference with the US).

If they're still at it when I want to head to bed, it's going to be proper Hell (capital h, and with all the trimmings).

Even if I can go to bed in relative quiet, I'm planning another trip to my building's caretaker office to complain. If these arrogant bipeds need to be reminded that they're not alone, and there are laws to make sure plonkers don't behave the way they did in caves.

Bloody waste of oxygen, the whole lot! I hope the two idiots downstairs aren't planning to breed.

PS: It's funny... I've noticed that I swear when I'm feeling low or I'm angry.

Sorry about the profanities in this post!

Fly, Vinegar, & My Rule #2

Just a friendly tip for lazy, arrogant bipeds: if you need me to give you something (that you badly need, and that you can exclusively get from me), you ask nicely, and you try to make it look as if you did your best whilst you failed miserably (and I'm being kind!).

The thing is, if you keep bugging me after I said "No, I won't give it to you just because you're asking!", if you treat me as if I were an annoying and despicable gnat, if you keep pretending that just showing up (but never doing your job) should be enough for you to get some reward... Let's face it, that won't work too well with me.

Oh, and if you yell at me that (that happened for real, and I'm still growling hours later) I'm, I quote, a 'cunt':

a - I'll report you to our bosses because I'm not your doormat

b- I'll get a witch to curse you (and I'm not even joking)

c - you'll be dead to me from now on

I'm not a fly that's caught with vinegar, respect is never a one-way street, and I wasn't raised in a barn.

I just hope this is not a taste of the year or I'll hibernate throughout 2015!!

Modern Laziness

Of course, things are always changing (and that cannot be helped - I know).

That, however, doesn't mean that I have to be nice and civil when people are too lazy. 

I mean... you open your e-mail client to send a message, and then... you type your entire message in the subject line.

I beg your pardon, but... since the new e-mail window is open, why not actually type something in the subject line and in the e-mail window itself? Or is that too tiring for your three brain cells?

Well... My e-mail client will think that your lazy message with its empty body is some spam, and even if I catch it, I shall ignore it. If you cannot be bothered to type an actual e-mail message, I shan't acknowledge it.

Am I being old-fashioned? Probably. Then again, why should I be the one to follow your lead when I find it annoying, lazy, and impolite?

Sorry, Cabbage, do better next time; "dumbing down" never made it to my vocabulary. Oops.

PS: No one died and made you king, and you're my equal, not my boss. Land, Cupcake...

Ode to a Dying Species: the Gentleman

In fact, I've got a story involving a man, but this works for any person who hasn't been raised in a barn...

On my way back from work (incidentally, allow a sub-rant as I wonder why some people feel the need to complain about being given work... at work. Yes, that happened today with someone who whinged miserably upon being assigned a quick and simple mission!), I took the tube, and we ended up playing rush-hour sardines. I'm used to the occasional anchovy position.

What I am not used to is a tall bloke (I'm 5'2", so everything's relative here) holding the handrail by the door and trapping my head between the door and his arm. There were many people, but he could have grabbed the handrail in the middle of the car; he was tall enough.

Ah... but you see, that would have meant letting go of his mobile and stopping scrolling down for three minutes! *fake gasp* THE HORROR!

Now, I wasn't raised in a barn (and I wasn't in the mood to be arrested for kicking him in the hazelnuts), but I did all I could to invite him to relocate his annoying arm. Alas, my bun's probably too soft to make him realize that he was trapping me against the glass (Merlin! That never happened to me in Tokyo - then again, there aren't many barns over there).

Then, the gentleman to my left noticed my unfortunate position, and at the following stop he vacated his spot so I could move there and save my head and my pretty face from the Barbarian with a mobile grafted on to his hand. I smiled at the gentleman, and he nodded at the oblivious biped as if to say "Raised in a barn, what do you expect?".

The idiot left at the next stop, which he almost missed because he was engrossed with his text reading. The gentleman moved back next to me, and we traded yet another smile at the expense of the oik. The next stop was my destination, and the gentleman opened the door for me.

It's not a question of gender. It's a question of education, as I can perfectly imagine women in the roles of "the troglodyte" and "the gentlewoman".

There was biped "A" in a "Me, me, me!' moment and not caring about anything, and there was a delightful member of society "B", who had the opportunity to do something to make someone's life nicer for a few minutes, and who did make my life nicer (and perhaps saved someone's cashews in the process, too).

Merlin, I loathe mobiles and the idiotic bipeds addicted to them!

Empress of Mars

A few months ago, I added to my official bio on Twitter "Empress of Mars".

I'd said that I'd explain why, and tonight's absolutely perfect.

I chose that title to somehow replace 'I've got a bridge to sell you, and I can get you a good price on the Tower, too' because I get to read soooo many things that make me think that 'If you're ready to believe that, then I've got a bridge to sell you', and the bridge-selling turned into a pseudo-claim on a neighbouring planet...

And so, now it's 'If you believe that, I'm the Empress of Mars'.

However, my title keeps expanding... unfortunately, and that's mostly because I feel more and more as if I'm not from Earth.

Just tonight, I was watching the Ig Nobel Prize Ceremony online. I was listening to it through earphones coz... it's night here, and I already felt bad for giggling so loudly.

And then... I heard music.

Music that wasn't coming from the ceremony... 

I took the earphones off, and the din seemed to be coming from... Guess where? Yes, of course, the restaurant downstairs. And yet, since the sound also seemed to come from upstairs, I went downstairs, in the courtyard, in order to check who was the actual culprit.

The restaurant was the culprit. There was loud music, and people shouting like banshees with their dominant fingers caught in a heavy door.

I went back up, phoned the restaurant, and... a man answered (Miracle!), and the poor bunny had a hard time hearing me because there were patrons celebrating a birthday.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww. 

Pardon my French, but... Bloody bollocking hell! Do these bipeds think they're alone on the fucking planet?

The bloke got the banshees under control pretty quickly, but I shouldn't have to keep complaining.

Tomorrow... I'll try to reach the owner of that despicable place, and I'll ask him if he thinks it's normal to hear banshees several stories above his place whilst listening to YouTube on earphones. 

He'll probably apologize, but why do I have to take time to remind him to behave like a human being? Oh, yes, because I wasn't raised in a barn. It's either that or I'm really the Empress of Mars, and I need to go back to my planet to not blow a fuse because of banshees...

Dru,

Empress of Mars (currently living above arrogant plonkers who think they own the planet)

To Pseudo-Fashionistas

There's always something, isn't there?

We always find some bipeds who are convinced that their way is the only way (and - let's not forget! - that they're right).

Once upon a time, I was dancing. Since it was traditional dancing, I had to sew my dresses because it was either that or find authentic dresses from the 19th century, and... though these dresses can still be found, they're usually auctioned and cost an arm, a leg, an eye, and the soul of your first born - and so I was sewing (already back then... *cue nostalgic sigh*).

The one thing I could afford was a copy of drawings that had been made in the late 19th century to illustrate the local costumes of the region I was representing.

In our group of dancers, one member had self-proclaimed "itself" (not a fan back then, and I haven't recovered yet) Costumer-in-Chief. One tiny problem: that person was competent from 1945 onwards; anything before that was completely alien to that person. Oops.

I'd done my homework (yea... that's a pathology I acquired very young), and I knew that my design was accurate for the character I was to incarnate, but the Costumer-in-Chief thought it appropriate to inquire about the length of my skirt. I was able to defend my hem by quoting the reference to the drawings I'd invested in. Had I been uninformed, I would have been invited to shorten my skirt, which is what happened to a fellow who'd been lucky enough to find an authentic 19th century dress that fit her even though she was rather tall, and who was ordered by the Costumer-in-Chief to cut the bottom of the dress. I met them all months after that crime was committed, but that's something that still makes me growl years later.

Today's dress-related growl was generated by a tweet that led me to this article.

First... is everybody a critic now? Or are silly bipeds that jealous when someone's got a bit of success that they can't help spouting venom? Or is it still 1012, and women are still judged on the way they look and the way they dress whilst boys are left alone?

And then... these pseudo-fashionistas don't know a thing about the history of patterns.

I love that dress: Roman-inspired top, and Empire/Regency skirt, made in Victorian-inspired floral material. Sorry, guys, but this is very original, and it's lovely!

Some people seem to have commented on the black shoes. So what? I've got a pair like that (not as shiny, though), and they're awesome - and comfy. 

Oh! My bad again! Was she supposed to wear some pseudo-fashionable shoes that would have killed her back and her feet? Merlin! It's 2014, guys, and anyone should be able to come to any award ceremony in slippers and not be flamed for that.

Sheesh!

*off the sewing "soap box"*

Cursed!

Nothing "supernatural", but I'm currently feeling rather unlucky about my various neighbours and their relationship to... noise.

In town, I've had to deal with the A/C unit from Hell, and now the bloke who does the dishes for the plonkers downstairs  apparently needs to listen to Elton John and Celine Dion as he works (from midnight to 1:30AM - when it's not until 2AM)... and the din travels through the chimneys (old building, there are several in each flat) and along the water conduits.

Basically, I'll probably have to phone them in order to tell them to stop their music (they must think they're alone on earth or the village idiot's doing the dishes because there's no way they don't know it's way too loud).

Swell!

I escaped to the country for Easter. To a place where there's nothing.

New neighbours across the garden, and apparently, they're having a party. Inside. And I can hear them.

That's going to be entertaining in the summer if my relatives have to complain about some din.

I've had parties with friends, but the music was never loud, and I turned it off before 10 PM, and, cherry on the icing on that cake, none of us were ever screeching like demented banshees... I sometimes think that I'm wired differently - or something.

I'm waiting for my cat to head home (we prefer having the cats inside at night; there are sociopaths around), and I could be listening to a lovely nightingale, but I cannot as the silly bunnies are louder than that poor bird.

That feels like a curse. A bit.

Dear Mobile Users (+ Other Notes)

Note to mobile-addicted bipeds: 

- if you're going to break up with your better half (and that's probably literal) in a call whilst on the bus, have a spot of self-esteem, and don't have the entire bus enjoy the whole thing. It makes you look like a demented creature who might well be just out of Bedlam - or at least in need of some education (then again, you all know about my love for mobiles).

- if you've just done drugs, don't phone your best mate to tell him (in great details!) how you feel and everything. The world doesn't need to know what you took, how long it made you puke, how dizzy and high you're feeling and how hungry you are (okay, that part made me go: 'Helloooo, Amazing Grace!'). Once more: self-esteem and good education.

I've got some seasonal extra work now, which means that I'm covering for other people, and I got to meet students who are not "mine". 

Bottom line? I may have slightly scared mine, but now they arrive on time, they keep their mobiles out of sight, and they do their homework (not all of them, but most of them, and I'm darn proud of that because I hope they'll remember to behave decently outside of school, and I want to believe that a bit of what I taught them will stay with them after they leave my care). The others? Simple... when I left the room, I started wondering what half of them are smoking, inhaling or taking.

Utterly disturbing and odd.

May the end of the week be quiet for all of us...!

Selfish in the City

Dear (incredibly silent) blog readers,

it's strange how noises affect us.

When I was a little girl, I spent years in a very quiet flat. When I moved with Mother to the flat where I still live, I remember my surprise when I could hear the near-constant flow of cars in the street; the very first night, I barely slept.

I quickly got used to it. I got used to the hubbub of my city...

Right under my flat, there's a restaurant. The one that was there when I was a little girl was owned by noisy plonkers (well, it was a bikers' meeting point). A few years later, new owners: they did most of their cooking in the flat below, and my bathroom often smelled of tomato sauce.

The restaurant was bought by a happy bunch of idiots last September (works from 9am to 6pm five days a week for weeks!). Then the works stopped, and they opened.

On Friday, January, 17th, 2014, I (finally?) noticed an odd noise, kitchen-side. It was two in the morning, I was typing something at my desk (on the other side of the flat), and there was an engine purr; I instantly feared that my boiler was acting up.

It wasn't the boiler.

I listened carefully, walked to my kitchen window, opened it, and then... Life as I'd known it went down the drain: the little idiots downstairs are using the properly antediluvian A/C unit that the restaurant owners before them had never used.

They're using it 24/7, and it's so loud that I always hear it. It's like being in an engine room day and night.

It's really strange how noises affect us. The constant din is making me extremely tired, extremely tetchy (let's face it, my usual, if extremely rare, version of Mrs Hyde would sound like Minnie Mouse compared with my current state), and even though I realized that there was an issue just over a week ago, it's possible that my body registered the trauma before I consciously did.

When I wake up, I feel some odd chest pressure now.

As of last night, my left arm is cramping.

No, I am not calling an ambulance.

As soon as I could, I complained to my building manager, but I cannot know how long it's going to take the council estate offices to react (after all, they're all far away from the din).

All my neighbours are growling, but I've been informed that only one other tenant did complain officially, like I did; the others are cowardly doormats.

If I don't hear from the manager on Monday, I'll have to call her.

I may have to call the police... All that because a happy bunch of idiots are selfish (if the restaurant owners don't know how noisy they are, they're decerebrated - no other possibility). They simply don't care.

I was still healing from the Great Freezing of my nerve VII, but I'm collapsing again, and it seems that my heart cannot stand residing in an engine room.
I can't sleep properly, and no one cares. On top of making me super tetchy, I can't concentrate, and I forget tiny things. Basically, things don't look too good.

So... if I end up liquefied on my linoleum, half-eaten by my cat, the idiots downstairs will have killed me.

Merlin! What a cheerful post!

xx,

Dru

ps: testament still in my black box, in the tax folder.

Giving an Inch?

Well, I'm done giving an inch, because of a "last straw" situation that exploded today because of people who keep taking a mile, or ten.

Oh, I'd love being like H.H. the Dalai Lama, but I'm not. Obviously.

Yes, I like it when everything's smooth and I don't have to bark at people, but things have been nutty and barmy these past few weeks, and I'm too exhausted to keep trying being nice.

The main pains in the... neck are a handful of students.

Most of them are nice. A few are delightful. A few have been raised by rabid gremlins with no social graces whatsoever.

Just today, I caught two students playing ping-pong texts right in front of me. When I asked the culprits what was so important (the rest of the class could see how furious I was - coz I was), the most annoying of the two answered that they had to share important things (Riiiight. Tiny lil' problem: mobiles are forbidden in my classroom, and they know it - well, to be honest, they should know it, but I'm not convinced that their brains are all there, so... you know). Important things? *snort* Whatever.

When I added that I'm not blind, the same culprit was all surprised. [Note to all students: most teachers may be older than you, but that doesn't mean that they're senile. Or blind. Or stupid. Or gullible. Thank you.]

It made them laugh that I scolded them. Lovely.

Oh, and earlier, they'd branded me a Scrooge because I refused to lend a piece of equipment (that I would need in the next five minutes) to a student I'd never seen before, and who was in Merlin knows which classroom. The visiting student was less annoying than mine, who refused to understand that my "No!" was final.

I could say that I'd like a word with their parents, but perhaps the poor parents aren't guilty and aren't to blame for the behaviour of their offspring.

Of course, I'm dealing with (so-called) young adults, but they can't be bothered to respect that I'm the one in charge.

Now, I'm just one teacher attempting to give them lessons in something that they view as minor, boring, and uninteresting.

I blame their head teachers, who see them once in a blue moon (and thus leave them all alone to their own devices), who tell them to treat them like friends (Probably because they want to pretend to be cool and so close to their young-ish students... Bloody hell! Since when did I give the students permission to be so buddy-buddy with me? Oh, wait! That would be never!), and who keep telling them that my class is useless.

I'm boiling.

Usually, I find quiet again once I get home, but not this time - hence the "last straw" situation.

I feel a Vesuvius coming up, and it won't be pretty.

I've tried explaining things nicely. I've been patient...

... I've had enough.

In years of teaching (not saying how many, but I didn't start two years ago), this is the first time that students manage to anger me this much - and that I keep being angry outside of my classroom!

The poor lil' bunnies are going to be all surprised, but life's freeking too short, and I'm not going to let them drive me nuts (I've got colleagues for that).

Time to get the rolling pin out and crack the whip - but I bloody shouldn't have to do that!

To paraphrase the great Dr Leonard H. McCoy: I'm a teacher, not a copper. And I'm not their mother.

Panem et... Rules

Confession time (sort of). On telly, I like documentaries and concerts and ballets and plays and series. I like things that have a schedule - not because they have a schedule and I'm a control freak; it's just that I'm like that.

Now... when it comes to sports, I like a few things: sumo and the Oxford-Cambridge boat race, which are (well, except if you add one idiot in the Thames) rather scheduled events.

I'm old enough to remember a time when all TV schedules were respected to the letter, even if a match or game of <insert any variety of sport here> wasn't finished. Today, let's face it, with the money sponsors are putting into televised sports events, channels do not stop broadcasting football, rugby, tennis or pillow-throwing (in case you're wondering, yes, I'm being sarcastic because I'm tired and angry) because there's just too much money in it for them.

The hordes of sheeple are just too happy because they need to see the results immediately. 

Couldn't channels schedule sport events differently and plan for a possible delay to the following programme? No, because it'd mean planning (and I'm not sure they're good enough to plan this far) and it'd mean a short programme to show if the match ended on time, and that'd mean spending money. So, basically, channels today all hope that all sports events are going to end on time, and if not... to hell with the (paying!!!) people who are waiting for the programme that's scheduled after the game.

I know that there's no 'One person’s freedom ends where another's begins' in this case because we're talking about channels that want to make money without too much work; quality and respect mean nothing to these bipeds, so their behaviour is not surprising at all.

What I find utterly annoying is that, if you dare to complain, let's say because the play you're planning to watch is delayed by some sport, you'll have some sheeple (and not necessarily sports fans, which is just a bit rich!) who will make fun of you... because 'you react like my nan when her favourite soap is late', because 'it's not important'.

Basically, you're treated like a childish pain in the neck because you dare to complain.

I say 'Hold it right there, mate!'. 

Yes, all right, it's not the end of the world, but why should it be wrong (when I pay for a service! Let's not forget that!) to expect my 9pm play to start at 9pm, not 9:15pm or even 9:35pm?

This is just entertainment (even if I pay for it), but I'm afraid it reveals a much deeper problem in some sheeple's attitudes. According to them, why bother with schedules? We've got TV schedules, but they're not carved in the rock.

Right.

This is exactly the kind of sheeple who will growl if imposed a deadline at work (Oh, the horror!).

But at the same time, this is exactly the kind of sheeple who will howl at the moon if their train or tube or plane is NOT on schedule.

Because, let's face it, if you want your train to be on time, I'm allowed to dream that my play is not going to be delayed by half an hour. Fair enough, no? Of course, our dear sheeple will growl that I'm being a pain in the neck, and that it's not the same.

Whatever.

I'm not advocating to always behave like sad dictators (a delay of a couple of minutes isn't too dreadful), but schedules and planning are made for a good reason. Not respecting them is an open door to... chaos? In the very long term - possibly. But it's immediately an open door to mediocrity and laziness.

Am I being harsh? Not in my book. Sorry (and as usual, when I say 'Sorry')...

I could blame this entry on my being feverish, but... No. I'm being myself, and I'm just saying, stating and typing what I think.

Besides, I've just caught someone barking at the world because of something minor - apparently, one is not allowed to express sadness if one feels sad, and that was a bit of a last straw.

I've got colourful names coming to my mind, but I'll refrain from typing them...

What's Wrong with... Oh, Fuck It!

Look! Wednesday madness!

I'm properly furious, and I've got my raised-in-a-barn colleague to thank for this.

Today, our common whiteboard was fully clean. Hurrah!

BUT... there wasn't a single pen left in the room!

Monday night there were five pens for us, the three teachers who share the room, the plonker was the last in the room, and now all the pens were gone! I can't believe it's not on purpose that all the pens disappeared.

I ran to the Administration building, asked for a pen and demonstrated that I'm working alongside a bully (mental age of a toddler: 'I took the pens! Mwahaha!').

My admin colleagues suggested that I ignore him, but I shan't - not the way they think...

I was given several pens for us all, which I left in the room (one in the common cupboard, three next to the board). If I'm pen-less next Wednesday again, I'll go to the big boss and the unions. I'm not going to allow a little boy to bully me and play with me.

In years of teaching, I forgot to erase the board once (I was quite unwell, and I stupidly felt bad for weeks afterwards) - because I was taught to clean after myself.

If that boy cannot do it (and throws a hissy fit when he's reminded that I'm not his bloody maid!), he's in for a surprise, because I'm not going to be nice and shut up.

The fecking nerve!*

Oh, and if he keeps being a cunt, I'll use his re-arranged name to baptise the stupidest, ugliest plonker in my PI stories.

*: I should probably be sorry about my foul mouth, but I noticed that almost no one listens to nice girls. So that twat had better have his life jacket ready, there's a Dru storm heading his way.

What's Wrong with People? (Still Being Rhetorical Here)

Is it that people don't pay attention? Or that they can't pay attention (as in 'I'm de-evolving, don't be too harsh with me)?

Honestly, I don't know - and I don't care. All I see is that the results bug me - quite a lot.

Just today...

I got to job#1, opened the door to my classroom and... my raised-in-a-barn colleague had moved tables (and not bothered to put them back because that's so bloody tiring and takes soooooo long [insert massive snort and a wish to frell one of his knees here]). That's one thing - incidentally, I left the tables where they are because I'm not a man with a van.

Then, I turned to our common white board, and... [drum-roll, please] both sides had things written on them. In full Carolyn Knapp-Shappey mode, I wiped clean the side with fewer stuff, and I wiped a square on the other side, in the middle, and in a nice red square, I asked him to wipe the thing. Ta, muchly!

If his plonkerish highness doesn't wipe our board next week, the next message shall be: 'I'M NOT YOUR MAID!!!'

He could be the Viceroy of India - I don't care. I wipe the board when I leave, I'm not paid to do it for him. Bloody Neanderthal.

Icing on the cake: the students. Monday's lot was fantabulous; when I told them it was the 200th anniversary of the publication of Pride and Prejudice, they asked me question about it, and we ended up working on Jane Austen, and a bit of Shakespeare and Dickens on the side. It was extremely productive.

Today's lot: chatting, drawing cutesy stuff on the important paper I'd just given them, not taking down notes and using their mobiles whilst I've clearly forbidden it. They're all over 18, but I think it'd be quieter to deal with a whole nursery school!

Next week, I predict some growling - to begin with.

And this week's cherry on the icing goes to job#3 and to the gal who doesn't understand that I told her that I've deleted a few files in one particular folder.

It went:

Her: where's the rest of the stuff?

Me: I deleted a few things.

Her: I thought something was missing, but if you say the folder's complete.

*blink*

Me: *head DESK*

May I move to Vulcan now? Pleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaase!