For some obscure reason, I am driven to spring-clean the house from top to bottom in readiness for Christmas and my son's return from university, where he lives in studenty squalor and frankly wouldn't notice or care if I didn't bother to clean here for the next two years. But that's not the point, although I'm not quite sure what the actual point is. I just have to do it. In the same way I have to stack the pantry and fridge to maximum capacity in an effort to make up for all the times he's existed on baked beans, getting the house clean and welcoming for him just seems the most important thing to do right now. I guess it's a nurturing thing, and I don't get to do it often enough these days.
My husband thinks I'm slightly mad to go to these lengths, because in about three hours' time the hall will be full of son's manky washing, kicked-off boots the size of boats, coats over the bannister, keys, small change and general rubbish scattered to the four corners, lost until it's time for him to go back and we clear it all up again. His bedroom will once again become a no-go zone and we'll run out of lager.
Although underneath the chaos the house will be clean, with help from the rest of the family over the Christmas holidays it's going to degenerate into a total, shambolic mess.
Bring it on.
I can't wait. I just want him home.
Thursday, 20 December 2007
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
Fail to Plan, Plan to Fail.
So I thought I'd join in with this whole cookin' shoppin' and preparin' lark, and having watched Nigella making whoopie with four cans of cling-peaches last night on TV (anyone know why they're called "cling" peaches, other than in solidarity with Ms Lawson's skin tight sweater?), I called into Waitrose on my way home from work to buy the stuff I needed. After a day flapping around like a clairvoyant turkey, I felt a little bit of festive cookery would be therapeutic, and what's more I'd downloaded the ingredients list from the internet. That's extremely organised for me, so please be impressed.
White wine vinegar, check. Two sticks of cinnamon, check. Chilli flakes, er what? Will these crushed ones do? Yes, of course they will, bung them in. Check. Four centimetre piece of fresh ginger. Check. Tinned peaches? Yes, I said peaches. Please. You know, those hairy yellow things that used to have a stone in the middle but don't any more? In a can? In syrup? C'mon, you must know what I mean. Sold out? Oh, silly me, of course they're sold out, I should have realised - it's 5.00 p.m., on the day after Nigella showed us how to make hot 'n sexy Spiced Peaches to go with our cold gammon, so why on earth did I expect Waitrose to have any sodding peaches left? Or gammon, come to that. Every aspiring domestic goddess in Britain has obviously had the same urge as me - and it's not often I can be bothered to do anything that involves chilli flakes or cinnamon, I can tell you. Let alone tinned fruit. Oh bugger.
So I set about making a right nuisance of myself until we found some, and after a bit of serious shelf rummaging, I finally managed to assemble ALL the ingredients so off home I went, triumphant. Well, I thought, that's my evening planned. A quick supper, put on the apron, a bit of lip gloss, a gin, some background music (Led Zeppelin actually, not very seasonal but absolutely fantastic nonetheless) and away with the mixer. Festive food prepared Swearing Mother style. No problem. Move over Nigella and let a real woman in.
And it was all going so smoothly until the end, when I discovered some missing but vital ingredients. Why didn't anybody remind me to get some jars to put the bloody things in?
Fuck.
White wine vinegar, check. Two sticks of cinnamon, check. Chilli flakes, er what? Will these crushed ones do? Yes, of course they will, bung them in. Check. Four centimetre piece of fresh ginger. Check. Tinned peaches? Yes, I said peaches. Please. You know, those hairy yellow things that used to have a stone in the middle but don't any more? In a can? In syrup? C'mon, you must know what I mean. Sold out? Oh, silly me, of course they're sold out, I should have realised - it's 5.00 p.m., on the day after Nigella showed us how to make hot 'n sexy Spiced Peaches to go with our cold gammon, so why on earth did I expect Waitrose to have any sodding peaches left? Or gammon, come to that. Every aspiring domestic goddess in Britain has obviously had the same urge as me - and it's not often I can be bothered to do anything that involves chilli flakes or cinnamon, I can tell you. Let alone tinned fruit. Oh bugger.
So I set about making a right nuisance of myself until we found some, and after a bit of serious shelf rummaging, I finally managed to assemble ALL the ingredients so off home I went, triumphant. Well, I thought, that's my evening planned. A quick supper, put on the apron, a bit of lip gloss, a gin, some background music (Led Zeppelin actually, not very seasonal but absolutely fantastic nonetheless) and away with the mixer. Festive food prepared Swearing Mother style. No problem. Move over Nigella and let a real woman in.
And it was all going so smoothly until the end, when I discovered some missing but vital ingredients. Why didn't anybody remind me to get some jars to put the bloody things in?
Fuck.
Friday, 7 December 2007
Busy, busy, busy.
Like everyone else who is on a marathon pre-Christmas orgy of cleaning, shopping, cooking and working, I am rapidly disappearing up my own exit, so instead of maintaining a sinister silence I'm posting something that has been doing the rounds in the office. So here it is, Merry Christmas, everybody's having fun......... yet another definitive list of Venus/Mars observations which I found to be quite amusing. Hope you do too.
Cats:
Women love cats.
Men say they love cats, but when women aren't looking, men kick cats.
Future:
A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband.
A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.
Success:
A successful man is one who makes more money than his wife can spend.
A successful woman is one who can find such a man.
Marriage:
A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn't.
A man marries a woman expecting that she won't change, but she does.
Dressing up:
A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the bins, answer the phone, read a book or get the post.
A man will dress up for wedding and funerals.
Natural beauty:
Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed.
Women somehow deteriorate during the night.
Offspring:
Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favourite foods, secret fears, hopes and dreams.
A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in his house.
Selective Hearing:
When a woman says: C'mon.....this place is a mess, you and I need to tidy up. Your trousers are on the floor and you'll have no clean clothes if we don't do the laundry now.
What a man hears: C'MON ..... blah, blah, blah YOU AND I blah, blah, blah, blah, ON THE FLOOR blah, blah, blah, NO CLOTHES blah, blah, blah, blah, NOW.
Nicknames:
If Laura, Suzannne, Kate and Sarah go out for lunch, they will call each other Laura, Suzanne, Kate and Sarah.
If Mike, Charlie, Dave and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Godzilla, Shit-Head and Four-Eyes.
Eating Out:
When the bill arrives, Mike, Charlie, Dave and John will each throw in £20, even though the bill is only £32.50. None of them will have anything smaller and none will actually admit they want change back.
When the girls get their bill, out come the pocket calculators.
Money:
A man will pay £2 for a £1 item if he needs it.
A woman will pay £1 for a £2 item that she doesn't need, but it's on sale.
Bathrooms:
A man has six items in his bathroom - toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of soap and a towel.
The average number of items in a typical woman's bathroom is 137. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these items.
Arguments:
A woman has the last word in any argument.
Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.
And finally......
Thought For The Day:
Any married man should forget his mistakes. There's no use in two people remembering the same thing.
Dont'cha just love wild generalisations? Please feel free to add anything that tickled you over the past week to my comment page, I think we all need a laugh!!
Cats:
Women love cats.
Men say they love cats, but when women aren't looking, men kick cats.
Future:
A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband.
A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.
Success:
A successful man is one who makes more money than his wife can spend.
A successful woman is one who can find such a man.
Marriage:
A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn't.
A man marries a woman expecting that she won't change, but she does.
Dressing up:
A woman will dress up to go shopping, water the plants, empty the bins, answer the phone, read a book or get the post.
A man will dress up for wedding and funerals.
Natural beauty:
Men wake up as good-looking as they went to bed.
Women somehow deteriorate during the night.
Offspring:
Ah, children. A woman knows all about her children. She knows about dentist appointments and romances, best friends, favourite foods, secret fears, hopes and dreams.
A man is vaguely aware of some short people living in his house.
Selective Hearing:
When a woman says: C'mon.....this place is a mess, you and I need to tidy up. Your trousers are on the floor and you'll have no clean clothes if we don't do the laundry now.
What a man hears: C'MON ..... blah, blah, blah YOU AND I blah, blah, blah, blah, ON THE FLOOR blah, blah, blah, NO CLOTHES blah, blah, blah, blah, NOW.
Nicknames:
If Laura, Suzannne, Kate and Sarah go out for lunch, they will call each other Laura, Suzanne, Kate and Sarah.
If Mike, Charlie, Dave and John go out, they will affectionately refer to each other as Fat Boy, Godzilla, Shit-Head and Four-Eyes.
Eating Out:
When the bill arrives, Mike, Charlie, Dave and John will each throw in £20, even though the bill is only £32.50. None of them will have anything smaller and none will actually admit they want change back.
When the girls get their bill, out come the pocket calculators.
Money:
A man will pay £2 for a £1 item if he needs it.
A woman will pay £1 for a £2 item that she doesn't need, but it's on sale.
Bathrooms:
A man has six items in his bathroom - toothbrush and toothpaste, shaving cream, razor, a bar of soap and a towel.
The average number of items in a typical woman's bathroom is 137. A man would not be able to identify more than 20 of these items.
Arguments:
A woman has the last word in any argument.
Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.
And finally......
Thought For The Day:
Any married man should forget his mistakes. There's no use in two people remembering the same thing.
Dont'cha just love wild generalisations? Please feel free to add anything that tickled you over the past week to my comment page, I think we all need a laugh!!
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Ready For Christmas?
Me? Ready for Christmas? You must be kidding.
If there's a phrase specifically designed to get many of us breaking into a cold sweat, it's that one. This is the time of year when hairdressers throughout the land switch from "been anywhere nice for your holidays?" to "all ready for Christmas, then?" and it's the one question which can engender feelings of woeful inadequacy in some people, sheer terror in others and put most women into a bit of a spin. I go in for all three, obviously.
In our house things follow a well-trodden path. Around now I start asking my grown-up family what delightful little prezzie they would like from Mummy and Daddy. The answer these days is usually, "dunno". They will let me know. At this point I often reminisce about how lovely it used to be back in the good old days when they sent letters to Santa (or Father Christmas as we used to call him), written in wobbly crayon and entrusted to me to dispatch to FC by means of lighting the note and letting it float up the chimney (a dangerous practice I know, and one the Fire Brigade used to condemn on a regular basis when they turned up to deal with our chimney fires, although I must admit they always used to enjoy the sherry and mincepies. I really miss those boys). But those innocent days are long gone, and now gifts get to be ordered direct, from source, i.e., John Lewis, Amazon or Argos, bypassing Santa and his little elves completely. How sad.
Husband is similarly "not bovvered". He is a man with everything, he says, and has the receipts to prove it. He tells me he honestly can't think of anything he really wants, which is nice in one way and sad in another. Of course, this feigned apathy will last right up until the day before Christmas Eve, when having given it a coat of thought he will decide, at the very last moment, that what he'd really, really like would be some obscure, out of print book, written by an obscure out of print author forty years ago, which gives me no chance at all of finding it before the big day. There won't, of course, ever be an ISBN number, just a vague description of the plot and what the front cover looks like. Really useful.
But me, well, I've always got a list. A long one. It's usually random, varied but never boring, and doesn't contain anything remotely useful or domestic. I'll ask for a bottle of Chanel No 5, but never an egg poacher. I like orchids in pots, or hyacinths in baskets, but definitely not gardening gloves. Slippers are a no-no especially if they look like they've escaped from a tart's bedroom, anything thermal will get the giver a thick ear rather than a thank-you note, and I absolutely hate gift sets. Apart from that, I am easy to buy for. It's everyone else who's the problem.
But when it comes to festive food, for me that's where the real potential for panic lies. Questions such as "made your puddings yet?" are enough to make me want to lock myself in the pantry until February. No, of course I haven't made my pudding yet, or ever will as long as I can buy a fantastically delicious one from our local deli at less than it would cost me to make it. Ditto quiche, paté and ham. And have I done my stuffings? Are they nestling in cling-filmed smugness alongside the home-made bread sauce in my giant size freezer? Bugger off, this is me you're talking to. Don't forget who reminded you that "life's too short to stuff a mushroom". In my case, that extends to peeling chestnuts or arsing about with breadcrumbs too. There is one thing I've ticked off the list, however, and that is I've orderd "the bird" - or more accurately I should say "several birds" because this year (if you're vegetarian, please look away now) we're having a turkey, stuffed with duck, stuffed with chicken and I think there's a partidge in their somewhere. Gross really. A sort of festive, poultry pile-up, as if the whole lot of them had been travelling in convoy across an icy farmyard and then suddenly, oops, the lead bird (the turkey in this case) had slammed on the brakes, not giving the following traffic time to slow down. A rear-end shunt of gourmet proportions. Come to think of it, that's not very nice really. Especially for the birds.
Actually, on reflection, I might change my mind about the turkey et al, now I've described it in terms of road-kill. It's put me off a bit. But now that means I've done nothing, absolutely nothing, to get ready for Christmas.
Apart from buying a sparkly frock, booking my hair appointments and getting my nails sorted, obviously.
Doing anything special for New Year?
If there's a phrase specifically designed to get many of us breaking into a cold sweat, it's that one. This is the time of year when hairdressers throughout the land switch from "been anywhere nice for your holidays?" to "all ready for Christmas, then?" and it's the one question which can engender feelings of woeful inadequacy in some people, sheer terror in others and put most women into a bit of a spin. I go in for all three, obviously.
In our house things follow a well-trodden path. Around now I start asking my grown-up family what delightful little prezzie they would like from Mummy and Daddy. The answer these days is usually, "dunno". They will let me know. At this point I often reminisce about how lovely it used to be back in the good old days when they sent letters to Santa (or Father Christmas as we used to call him), written in wobbly crayon and entrusted to me to dispatch to FC by means of lighting the note and letting it float up the chimney (a dangerous practice I know, and one the Fire Brigade used to condemn on a regular basis when they turned up to deal with our chimney fires, although I must admit they always used to enjoy the sherry and mincepies. I really miss those boys). But those innocent days are long gone, and now gifts get to be ordered direct, from source, i.e., John Lewis, Amazon or Argos, bypassing Santa and his little elves completely. How sad.
Husband is similarly "not bovvered". He is a man with everything, he says, and has the receipts to prove it. He tells me he honestly can't think of anything he really wants, which is nice in one way and sad in another. Of course, this feigned apathy will last right up until the day before Christmas Eve, when having given it a coat of thought he will decide, at the very last moment, that what he'd really, really like would be some obscure, out of print book, written by an obscure out of print author forty years ago, which gives me no chance at all of finding it before the big day. There won't, of course, ever be an ISBN number, just a vague description of the plot and what the front cover looks like. Really useful.
But me, well, I've always got a list. A long one. It's usually random, varied but never boring, and doesn't contain anything remotely useful or domestic. I'll ask for a bottle of Chanel No 5, but never an egg poacher. I like orchids in pots, or hyacinths in baskets, but definitely not gardening gloves. Slippers are a no-no especially if they look like they've escaped from a tart's bedroom, anything thermal will get the giver a thick ear rather than a thank-you note, and I absolutely hate gift sets. Apart from that, I am easy to buy for. It's everyone else who's the problem.
But when it comes to festive food, for me that's where the real potential for panic lies. Questions such as "made your puddings yet?" are enough to make me want to lock myself in the pantry until February. No, of course I haven't made my pudding yet, or ever will as long as I can buy a fantastically delicious one from our local deli at less than it would cost me to make it. Ditto quiche, paté and ham. And have I done my stuffings? Are they nestling in cling-filmed smugness alongside the home-made bread sauce in my giant size freezer? Bugger off, this is me you're talking to. Don't forget who reminded you that "life's too short to stuff a mushroom". In my case, that extends to peeling chestnuts or arsing about with breadcrumbs too. There is one thing I've ticked off the list, however, and that is I've orderd "the bird" - or more accurately I should say "several birds" because this year (if you're vegetarian, please look away now) we're having a turkey, stuffed with duck, stuffed with chicken and I think there's a partidge in their somewhere. Gross really. A sort of festive, poultry pile-up, as if the whole lot of them had been travelling in convoy across an icy farmyard and then suddenly, oops, the lead bird (the turkey in this case) had slammed on the brakes, not giving the following traffic time to slow down. A rear-end shunt of gourmet proportions. Come to think of it, that's not very nice really. Especially for the birds.
Actually, on reflection, I might change my mind about the turkey et al, now I've described it in terms of road-kill. It's put me off a bit. But now that means I've done nothing, absolutely nothing, to get ready for Christmas.
Apart from buying a sparkly frock, booking my hair appointments and getting my nails sorted, obviously.
Doing anything special for New Year?
Sunday, 25 November 2007
We've Got Your Number, Alright?
I am definitely turning into a grumpy old woman. No doubt about it. This week has been one of rants, complaints and mutterings. "I don't believe it" has figured greatly in any and all conversations I've had for the past few days, along with "is it me, or was that totally thick/ridiculous/bloody dense/a complete waste of time?" etc., etc. Rant, rant, moan and grumble, ridiculous, stupid and crap. Like the village of Trumpton (old kids' TV show), my world seems to be populated by a load of wooden-heads.
It all started off when I ordered some train tickets over the Virgin trains automated telephone service because I couldn't be bothered to go down to the station in person (it was raining) or struggle with the internet (don't ask). Eventually, after negotiating the seemingly endless pre-recorded voice messages I was put through to a call centre probably somewhere considerably hotter and much further away than the UK, spoke to a charming but clueless person in Bangalore or wherever it is, and ordered two return tickets from Birmingham New Street to London Euston for this Saturday. The idea was to take in a show, have a nice meal, enjoy a relaxing wedding anniversary treat. Simple.
Or so you might think. Several days went by and nothing turned up. Then an enveloped which looked a bit like train tickets arrived but was addressed to my husband. As he was away on business (and I don't routinely open his post unless it looks really, really private and smells of perfume) it just got chucked in the pile of bills awaiting his return, lucky man. Over the next day or so nothing arrived addressed to me, so I looked at the letter again, decided it definitely felt a bit tickety, so opened it. Despite the fact that I had bought the tickets in my name, paid for them with my own credit card, for some reason they had been sent and charged to him, which was annoying as this was supposed to be a surprise treat. Now I don't know what you think about that, but I feel it's a security problem if one person can order something and it can be sent to someone else and charged on their credit card too. If only I could do that with clothes, handbags and shoes, my wardrobe worries would be over.
So I rang up and explained that this was just not acceptable, that I was the customer and not my husband, asked how and why they'd used his credit card details instead of mine and how they'd got them. I just got a blanket "we are sorry for the inconvenience" rather like I was on platform 10a waiting for the train to Coventry which was going to be a bit late. Bloody infuriating. No proper explanation was offered, the "operative" said that if I would hold on, he would put me through to a supervisor. I waited for a good fifteen minutes and then the line went dead. So much for customer services, Virgin.
But now it's got me thinking about how safe all our details really are, whoever's hands they are in, not just those held by half-soaked Civil Service numpties. After this week's fiasco at HM Revenue we are now only too aware that some Governmental departments are having a laugh when they tell us our personal files are secure, but I was really hoping that commercial transactions over the phone or the internet were less risky given the volume of business that depends on it. But now I am not so sure, and am wondering if anything other than face to face good old fashioned shopping is unwise. With cash, obviously, if we can all remember what that actually is.
Apart from the obvious ID fraud situation (my husband has always said that it would be a relief if my credit card was stolen as the thieves would probably spend less than I do), can you imagine the consequences if you were trying to get away with something a little bit naughty or secret? With someone other than your partner?
For instance, you've probably seen that credit card company's advert:
"Two First Class train tickets to London: £150.
Tickets for a West End show, with dinner: £180.
Illicit overnight nooky-fest, posh hotel, champagne and chocolates: £375.
Accidentally charging the above to your other half's credit card and thereby dropping you in the shit:
- PRICELESS."
Told you before, you can't get away with anything these days.
It all started off when I ordered some train tickets over the Virgin trains automated telephone service because I couldn't be bothered to go down to the station in person (it was raining) or struggle with the internet (don't ask). Eventually, after negotiating the seemingly endless pre-recorded voice messages I was put through to a call centre probably somewhere considerably hotter and much further away than the UK, spoke to a charming but clueless person in Bangalore or wherever it is, and ordered two return tickets from Birmingham New Street to London Euston for this Saturday. The idea was to take in a show, have a nice meal, enjoy a relaxing wedding anniversary treat. Simple.
Or so you might think. Several days went by and nothing turned up. Then an enveloped which looked a bit like train tickets arrived but was addressed to my husband. As he was away on business (and I don't routinely open his post unless it looks really, really private and smells of perfume) it just got chucked in the pile of bills awaiting his return, lucky man. Over the next day or so nothing arrived addressed to me, so I looked at the letter again, decided it definitely felt a bit tickety, so opened it. Despite the fact that I had bought the tickets in my name, paid for them with my own credit card, for some reason they had been sent and charged to him, which was annoying as this was supposed to be a surprise treat. Now I don't know what you think about that, but I feel it's a security problem if one person can order something and it can be sent to someone else and charged on their credit card too. If only I could do that with clothes, handbags and shoes, my wardrobe worries would be over.
So I rang up and explained that this was just not acceptable, that I was the customer and not my husband, asked how and why they'd used his credit card details instead of mine and how they'd got them. I just got a blanket "we are sorry for the inconvenience" rather like I was on platform 10a waiting for the train to Coventry which was going to be a bit late. Bloody infuriating. No proper explanation was offered, the "operative" said that if I would hold on, he would put me through to a supervisor. I waited for a good fifteen minutes and then the line went dead. So much for customer services, Virgin.
But now it's got me thinking about how safe all our details really are, whoever's hands they are in, not just those held by half-soaked Civil Service numpties. After this week's fiasco at HM Revenue we are now only too aware that some Governmental departments are having a laugh when they tell us our personal files are secure, but I was really hoping that commercial transactions over the phone or the internet were less risky given the volume of business that depends on it. But now I am not so sure, and am wondering if anything other than face to face good old fashioned shopping is unwise. With cash, obviously, if we can all remember what that actually is.
Apart from the obvious ID fraud situation (my husband has always said that it would be a relief if my credit card was stolen as the thieves would probably spend less than I do), can you imagine the consequences if you were trying to get away with something a little bit naughty or secret? With someone other than your partner?
For instance, you've probably seen that credit card company's advert:
"Two First Class train tickets to London: £150.
Tickets for a West End show, with dinner: £180.
Illicit overnight nooky-fest, posh hotel, champagne and chocolates: £375.
Accidentally charging the above to your other half's credit card and thereby dropping you in the shit:
- PRICELESS."
Told you before, you can't get away with anything these days.
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Big Brother Goes Postal
Unusual as it is for me to write anything topical, tonight's news that several million people who receive Child Benefit in this country have had their personal details put on disc by the Revenue, mailed out and subsequently lost, has drop-kicked me out of my usual after dinner sofa-coma and forced me to post something of my own. To say the least, losing a third of the population's personal information (including national insurance numbers, bank and savings details, along with those of their children) with the worrying prospect of this stuff getting into the wrong hands, is a cock-up of huge proportions with the possibility of dire consequences (ID fraud and theft being just two). It adds to an already long and varied list of cock-ups made by governmental departments within the UK. Heads will no doubt roll, arses will inevitably be kicked. And rightly so. The shit is certainly hitting the fan, and frankly so it should. It comes to something when we can get a more secure service from Amazon when ordering an Amy Winehouse CD over the internet than we can from HM Revenue and Customs.
But will the right heads roll, and the correct arses be kicked? The Chairman of the Revenue has resigned, apparently, not even waiting to be given the slow hand-clap, (or would that be the golden hand-shake - I can never remember which one it is that senior figures get when they've bolloxed things up and have to leave), but in isolation what good will his departure do us? Probably none at all because he, no doubt (like many other people in charge of huge organisations) had absolutely no bloody idea of what really goes on at less exalted levels, and was probably blissfully ignorant of how or why certain things were being done or by whom. OK, maybe he can be blamed for that in itself, and morally I suppose that as the head bloke he may feel that falling on his own sword is the honourable thing to do, but you have to ask yourself this.
Who really ordered such sensitive information to be downloaded in the first place (and how was that possible, given that computers can always be programmed to say "no" if asked to perform an "illegal" task?), and which blithering idiot stuck the discs in the post, not even sending them recorded delivery? And who's idea was that? Not the Chairman's, I'll bet, yet he must carry the can.
There is, however, a silver lining of delicious irony to this particular grey cloud of institutional ineptitude - whoever finds those CDs might well find themselves in possession of the personal and banking details of some very important people, including government officials and even extremely senior cabinet ministers, and that would never do. Unless of course the security services find them first. Or have I been watching too many episodes of Spooks?
But will the right heads roll, and the correct arses be kicked? The Chairman of the Revenue has resigned, apparently, not even waiting to be given the slow hand-clap, (or would that be the golden hand-shake - I can never remember which one it is that senior figures get when they've bolloxed things up and have to leave), but in isolation what good will his departure do us? Probably none at all because he, no doubt (like many other people in charge of huge organisations) had absolutely no bloody idea of what really goes on at less exalted levels, and was probably blissfully ignorant of how or why certain things were being done or by whom. OK, maybe he can be blamed for that in itself, and morally I suppose that as the head bloke he may feel that falling on his own sword is the honourable thing to do, but you have to ask yourself this.
Who really ordered such sensitive information to be downloaded in the first place (and how was that possible, given that computers can always be programmed to say "no" if asked to perform an "illegal" task?), and which blithering idiot stuck the discs in the post, not even sending them recorded delivery? And who's idea was that? Not the Chairman's, I'll bet, yet he must carry the can.
There is, however, a silver lining of delicious irony to this particular grey cloud of institutional ineptitude - whoever finds those CDs might well find themselves in possession of the personal and banking details of some very important people, including government officials and even extremely senior cabinet ministers, and that would never do. Unless of course the security services find them first. Or have I been watching too many episodes of Spooks?
Saturday, 17 November 2007
Crazy Eights
The lovely Amy over at Blog To The Bone has tagged me for Crazy Eights, so don't blame me, it's all her fault. Go over to her great blog and give her a bollocking if you're too bored to read any more of my lists. In my own contrary way I am doing some eights, some fours and an occasional five, so here goes:
Eight Things I Am Passionate About:
My husband and children.
My family and friends.
My home.
Justice and fairplay.
I'd like to add: Sex, gin, chocolate and shopping but fear it would look a bit shallow, so I shall stop at four.
Eight Things I'd Like To Do Before I Die:
Make a disgrace of myself at my grandchild's wedding by chatting up the bride's or bridegroom's Dad, whichever one I'm not related to. (I don't have any grandchildren yet, but there's always hope).
Invent an elixir of eternal youth and remember to patent it.
See my kids happy and settled with someone who loves them even half as much as I do.
Do something spectacular, or even bloody damned good.
Find an enjoyable way to earn enough money to have a wicked retirement.
Travel more, and stop making such a fuss about it.
Have more good times, and stop feeling guilty about it.
Discover what I am here for.
Eight Things I Say Often:
Fucking hell.
Sorry.
Wouldn't it be great if...........
Do I look as if I've put on weight?
I'm hungry.
I'm giving up this writing lark.
Hang your bloody coat up.
I am NOT nagging.
Eight books I have read recently or am still reading:
The Bible (now that shocked you, didn't it? Ha!)
The Wedding Officer by Anthony Capella.
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger.
The Girls by Lori Lansens
Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith
Daddy's Girls by Tasmin Perry
Sharon Osbourne's Autobiography
Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka.
Eight Songs(out of hundreds) I Could Listen To Over and Over:
Anything at all by the Beatles, except Yellow Submarine (sorry Ringo)
Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks
Simply Irresistible by Robert Palmer
Grapevine by Marvin Gaye
On The Road Again by Canned Heat
Filthy Gorgeous by The Scissor Sisters
Sweet Soul Music by Arthur Connolly (I think)
Let's Stick Together by Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music
Eight (yes, I know I've only done four) Things That Attract Me to Friends:
Sense of humour.
Capacity for fun.
Loyality.
Understanding.
It helps if they are fatter than me, obviously. (kidding).
Eight (as in four) People Who I Think Should Do Crazy 8's who haven't been tagged already:
1. Norman over at Thole Man.
2. Knifepainter.
3. The Grocer.
4. Travelling But Not In Love.
Now these are all chaps, and I don't want you to think I'm a flirt, but hey, why not?
Eight Things I Am Passionate About:
My husband and children.
My family and friends.
My home.
Justice and fairplay.
I'd like to add: Sex, gin, chocolate and shopping but fear it would look a bit shallow, so I shall stop at four.
Eight Things I'd Like To Do Before I Die:
Make a disgrace of myself at my grandchild's wedding by chatting up the bride's or bridegroom's Dad, whichever one I'm not related to. (I don't have any grandchildren yet, but there's always hope).
Invent an elixir of eternal youth and remember to patent it.
See my kids happy and settled with someone who loves them even half as much as I do.
Do something spectacular, or even bloody damned good.
Find an enjoyable way to earn enough money to have a wicked retirement.
Travel more, and stop making such a fuss about it.
Have more good times, and stop feeling guilty about it.
Discover what I am here for.
Eight Things I Say Often:
Fucking hell.
Sorry.
Wouldn't it be great if...........
Do I look as if I've put on weight?
I'm hungry.
I'm giving up this writing lark.
Hang your bloody coat up.
I am NOT nagging.
Eight books I have read recently or am still reading:
The Bible (now that shocked you, didn't it? Ha!)
The Wedding Officer by Anthony Capella.
The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger.
The Girls by Lori Lansens
Blue Shoes and Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith
Daddy's Girls by Tasmin Perry
Sharon Osbourne's Autobiography
Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian by Marina Lewycka.
Eight Songs(out of hundreds) I Could Listen To Over and Over:
Anything at all by the Beatles, except Yellow Submarine (sorry Ringo)
Waterloo Sunset by the Kinks
Simply Irresistible by Robert Palmer
Grapevine by Marvin Gaye
On The Road Again by Canned Heat
Filthy Gorgeous by The Scissor Sisters
Sweet Soul Music by Arthur Connolly (I think)
Let's Stick Together by Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music
Eight (yes, I know I've only done four) Things That Attract Me to Friends:
Sense of humour.
Capacity for fun.
Loyality.
Understanding.
It helps if they are fatter than me, obviously. (kidding).
Eight (as in four) People Who I Think Should Do Crazy 8's who haven't been tagged already:
1. Norman over at Thole Man.
2. Knifepainter.
3. The Grocer.
4. Travelling But Not In Love.
Now these are all chaps, and I don't want you to think I'm a flirt, but hey, why not?
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