Not really eventful. Had my yearly development review at work, I'm usually really anxious, desperately scrambling to ensure I've met my set objectives. This year, I literally couldn't care less. I very much doubt that my manager would have been surprised if during the discussion I drew a katana and committed Seppuku in the corner of the room (unless he is a secret samurai enthusiast in which case he may have wondered why I didn't use a tanto) such was the cloud of my discontent. There is no desire for me here, no want for development of me or the company. On the contrary, the only development I would welcome would be a bulldozer running through the place and a Lidl built on top of it. Not that I like Lidl, I wouldn't come anywhere near the place anyway, just because they're popping up everywhere and I'd rather that than a mass of rubble and destruction, on second thoughts, scrap the Lidl.
I outlined my misery, not that it matters. My manager would have got a more positive annual development review from Eeyore. Despite my saying I'm searching for other jobs he is determined to believe that I am still a happy member of the company family, hoping to drive it to it's success. His suggestions were to be a better Adam, an overly productive and pro-active Adam with all the Gung-ho action and good stuff surrounding me he would then have ammunition to fire back at the God managers and put me back to my previous hours (I wish, I thought, I had some ammunition to fire at them). The problem with this however is what manager in his right mind would move a person to different hours, find them more productive then think it would be a good idea to move them back? No, of course not I would only fuel the opinion that changing my hours was right idea, which it was not!
So I sat, giving "yes"s and "no"s in the appropriate gaps of conversation, defeated, I have long since realised that this is how it's going to be, why fight anymore? Why pretend that even if my hours were restored that I would still want to work here? They have shown their hand, I'll do my job for the money it pays, no more, no less. They will have an Adam at the rate they value him, no bargain.
On the plus side my brilliant wife had been to Pizza Hut earlier in the day and got me a mushroom and onion pizza, I don't like mushrooms but they had given her this mistakenly instead of the chicken and pepperoni pizza she had ordered for me, and on realising the mistake, for free. I'm not one to look a free, microwaved, take-out pizza with a topping I don't like in the mouth, diet be damned.
Friday, 27 April 2012
Thursday, 26 April 2012
25th of April 2012 - Breakfast Breakpoint
My morning started with a battle of wills with my oldest daughter (7) who has decided that she no longer likes toast. Doesn't. Like. Toast. Who doesn't like toast!? I bet Hitler didn't like toast, he didn't like loads of stuff, if my daughter thinks I'm going to let her go that route she's got another thing coming!
There are wheat intolorant people out there who can only dream of the luxury of toast and here my daughter shuns it. I made her eat her toast. If she carries on she'll only eat the petals of some flower that only blooms every 20 years or something. I mean I was a little fussy as a child about food but you can't turn down toast, it's a basic food group, isn't it? I don't know, I'm no dietician, all I know is that if you don't have carbs it makes you mental.
Her mum (NOT my wife) said "She's gone off bread and cereals but she will eat croissants, pancakes, waffles and brioche" That's right, her mother has allowed her to become upper class.... and french.... and Hitler!
In what world does a 7 year old little girl demand croissants over Sugar Puffs or pancakes over toast at breakfast? Not my world I tell you! Not in my name!
So after watching her eat toast at a snails pace (as her bites made all the damage of a sparrow's peck each time, underlining her obvious disgust at being forced to each such an offensive food stuff) I took two of my girls to school in the pouring rain and dashed back to get there for my wife to leave for work.
So I had my youngest daughter (2) and son (7 months) for a little while before I had to take them off to the childminder's, as I got them ready I said "can you get your trainers on please?" my daughter retrieved her trainers placed them next to me (as I was getting my son ready) and said "Daddy, it's very rainy I think I should wear my boots" I looked at her for a moment and replied "that sounds like something your mum would say, do you think she'd want you to wear boots?" she looked as me with the identical look my wife would give me if I'd been an idiot about something which prompted me to say "Yes. Get your boots on" and she skipped off gleefully to her wellies.
I think if one more person says "What happened to your hair?" at work I may just attack them like a rabid chimp. I did think at one point I'd just start chirping witty anecdotes like "lazer limbo", "I put it in the tumble dryer" or "nothing, my head has inflated" but I think next time I'll just plant my hands on my hips, throw my head back and give a Ming the Merciless type laugh in a hope the sarcasm suitably embarrasses them, everyone, it seems, is a comedian.
There are wheat intolorant people out there who can only dream of the luxury of toast and here my daughter shuns it. I made her eat her toast. If she carries on she'll only eat the petals of some flower that only blooms every 20 years or something. I mean I was a little fussy as a child about food but you can't turn down toast, it's a basic food group, isn't it? I don't know, I'm no dietician, all I know is that if you don't have carbs it makes you mental.
Her mum (NOT my wife) said "She's gone off bread and cereals but she will eat croissants, pancakes, waffles and brioche" That's right, her mother has allowed her to become upper class.... and french.... and Hitler!
In what world does a 7 year old little girl demand croissants over Sugar Puffs or pancakes over toast at breakfast? Not my world I tell you! Not in my name!
So after watching her eat toast at a snails pace (as her bites made all the damage of a sparrow's peck each time, underlining her obvious disgust at being forced to each such an offensive food stuff) I took two of my girls to school in the pouring rain and dashed back to get there for my wife to leave for work.
So I had my youngest daughter (2) and son (7 months) for a little while before I had to take them off to the childminder's, as I got them ready I said "can you get your trainers on please?" my daughter retrieved her trainers placed them next to me (as I was getting my son ready) and said "Daddy, it's very rainy I think I should wear my boots" I looked at her for a moment and replied "that sounds like something your mum would say, do you think she'd want you to wear boots?" she looked as me with the identical look my wife would give me if I'd been an idiot about something which prompted me to say "Yes. Get your boots on" and she skipped off gleefully to her wellies.
I think if one more person says "What happened to your hair?" at work I may just attack them like a rabid chimp. I did think at one point I'd just start chirping witty anecdotes like "lazer limbo", "I put it in the tumble dryer" or "nothing, my head has inflated" but I think next time I'll just plant my hands on my hips, throw my head back and give a Ming the Merciless type laugh in a hope the sarcasm suitably embarrasses them, everyone, it seems, is a comedian.
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
24th of April 2012 - Cometh the Hour...
So. I had the big interview. Woke up at the crack of dawn, gave myself a little time, I made a cup of tea (I'd run out of coffee) after an argument with myself as to whether some caffiene in my system would soothe me some or send me over the edge of a nervous chasm, in the end my mind just screamed "JUST GIVE ME THE FREAKIN' CAFFIENE!" which won. I'd done a little written prep which I'd hoped to have another good read through but the time just evaporated and I had to set off with only a single gulp of tea which in a way was a compromise, if not a waste of tea.
Got there early though not as early as I'd hoped as the site was split over two buildings across and down the road from each other, once I'd sorted this I went and sat and waiting for my executioner, well interviewer but by the rate I was sweating you could have thought either. He came down dressed in black (no hood) and I'd put him as a taller Gareth Barry, not so Barry like that I wanted to leap across the table throttling him whilst yelling "Judas! JUDAS! Look what you began!" so that was a positive for my interview performance. Barry-a-Like said he was waiting for his colleague who promptly arrived, a shortish, older, balding black man who despite wearing stylish glasses looked like Penfold from Dangermouse (He didn't say "Crumbs!" or "Ooh-Eck!" Once though. Disappointing)
Penfold said what his name was on two occasions (it wasn't Penfold), I have no idea what he said it was, it was unusual but that's as much as I could gather. I'll just have to hope and pray that I never have to address him by name and if by some miracle I do get the job avoid it's use at all costs until I see it written down or hear someone else say it with clarity, judging by me not grasping it on two attempts though I can only imagine that EVERYONE who works there avoids his name so I'll probably have to eye the ID card he was wearing.
The interview went as well it could, I bragged about what I've done, I bragged about what I can do I said how very, very much I would love to be a part of their brilliant business til my voice was so dry I was hoping Penfold or Barry-a-Like might offer me a glass of water. They didn't offer me a glass of water. In the end I'm short of a lot of what they need and I know jobs are being swamped with people with the adequate, appropriate experience and qualifications so if I'm unsuccessful I won't be too shaken, toward the end Barry-a-Like said that there is to be another round of interviews where they will be assessing whether we are relevant to the roles with questions about what we've done. "I've just bragged myself dry about what I've done!" I thought (obviously I didn't say that, I can imagine it wouldn't have been good interview etiquette).
Another interview? I feel like I'm releasing a film or something. I wonder if being told there is a second set of interviews is a positive, I mean if I wasn't going to get there why even bring them up? I didn't ask, that said Barry-a-Like (who seemed to prefer me to Penfold who seemed to be watching me with suspicion or wariness as opposed to Barry-a-Like's enthusiasm - this may have just been down to their differences in age though or completely in my imagination) could have just mentioned it as he evil like his name sake. Maybe they're related, definitely can't rule that out. So now it's just a matter of waiting.
Got there early though not as early as I'd hoped as the site was split over two buildings across and down the road from each other, once I'd sorted this I went and sat and waiting for my executioner, well interviewer but by the rate I was sweating you could have thought either. He came down dressed in black (no hood) and I'd put him as a taller Gareth Barry, not so Barry like that I wanted to leap across the table throttling him whilst yelling "Judas! JUDAS! Look what you began!" so that was a positive for my interview performance. Barry-a-Like said he was waiting for his colleague who promptly arrived, a shortish, older, balding black man who despite wearing stylish glasses looked like Penfold from Dangermouse (He didn't say "Crumbs!" or "Ooh-Eck!" Once though. Disappointing)
Penfold said what his name was on two occasions (it wasn't Penfold), I have no idea what he said it was, it was unusual but that's as much as I could gather. I'll just have to hope and pray that I never have to address him by name and if by some miracle I do get the job avoid it's use at all costs until I see it written down or hear someone else say it with clarity, judging by me not grasping it on two attempts though I can only imagine that EVERYONE who works there avoids his name so I'll probably have to eye the ID card he was wearing.
The interview went as well it could, I bragged about what I've done, I bragged about what I can do I said how very, very much I would love to be a part of their brilliant business til my voice was so dry I was hoping Penfold or Barry-a-Like might offer me a glass of water. They didn't offer me a glass of water. In the end I'm short of a lot of what they need and I know jobs are being swamped with people with the adequate, appropriate experience and qualifications so if I'm unsuccessful I won't be too shaken, toward the end Barry-a-Like said that there is to be another round of interviews where they will be assessing whether we are relevant to the roles with questions about what we've done. "I've just bragged myself dry about what I've done!" I thought (obviously I didn't say that, I can imagine it wouldn't have been good interview etiquette).
Another interview? I feel like I'm releasing a film or something. I wonder if being told there is a second set of interviews is a positive, I mean if I wasn't going to get there why even bring them up? I didn't ask, that said Barry-a-Like (who seemed to prefer me to Penfold who seemed to be watching me with suspicion or wariness as opposed to Barry-a-Like's enthusiasm - this may have just been down to their differences in age though or completely in my imagination) could have just mentioned it as he evil like his name sake. Maybe they're related, definitely can't rule that out. So now it's just a matter of waiting.
Monday, 23 April 2012
23rd of April 2012 - The Early Goldfish?
Got the big interview tomorrow, 7:30AM, still rocked by that one, hopefully this early bird will catch the salary paying worm. I'm not that hopeful though, I reckon that if they thought I was a contender they would have given me a reasonable time slot, or maybe it's a test of my commitment to employment with them, who knows. I have some of the experience and qualifications they're after, there's a whole bunch of stuff I don't have though, so it at least if I fail in my attempt it's not because my interview game stinks, well not solely down to my stinking interview game. I'll need to be the best Adam I can be, going at that time will at least mean I'll be lacking the excess energy that could feed my nerves. Got a new suit just need to write up some prep, shave and get in my zone .... Like I have a "zone".... I hate talking about myself, an odd thing to admit on a blog I grant you but can't stand the vanity and arrogance that is required.
Do businesses actually ever hire the person they interview? I suppose if they hire an out and out arrogant muppet ... So just for tomorrow I must don my Fozzie outfit "Wokka wokka wokka!".
It's St.George's day today, so I'll be celebrating that as I usually do. By doing nothing and finding out it's St.George's day on the radio in the late afternoon. It's the modern day equivalent of a street party.
Reaching a compromise on my diet, had a tiny turkey salad and a pack or Revels. I’ve come to a conclusion that if I starve myself of everything that tastes nice I will most likely gorge like Henry VIII every weekend, if I just eat well and moderate things that taste nice (a battle in itself) I am less likely to have Incredible Hulk-esque flip outs where I eat everything “good” my eyes meet and wake from a sugar coma sometime late on Sunday.
Do businesses actually ever hire the person they interview? I suppose if they hire an out and out arrogant muppet ... So just for tomorrow I must don my Fozzie outfit "Wokka wokka wokka!".
It's St.George's day today, so I'll be celebrating that as I usually do. By doing nothing and finding out it's St.George's day on the radio in the late afternoon. It's the modern day equivalent of a street party.
Reaching a compromise on my diet, had a tiny turkey salad and a pack or Revels. I’ve come to a conclusion that if I starve myself of everything that tastes nice I will most likely gorge like Henry VIII every weekend, if I just eat well and moderate things that taste nice (a battle in itself) I am less likely to have Incredible Hulk-esque flip outs where I eat everything “good” my eyes meet and wake from a sugar coma sometime late on Sunday.
21st/22nd of April 2012 - The First Cut is the Deepest and Psychological Carbo Loading
Had my haircut, this may not seem worth a mention but when you have a 2ft afro people notice. I must neaten up, have an interview at 7:30 on Tuesday (YES 7:30AM!). There's a new barber/ hairdressers opened around the corner from my house, I did have the fear that on entry with the question "Do you do afro hair?" whilst pointing at my voluptuous barnet the barbers would douse themselves with shaving alcohol or hairspray, set themselves alight and throw their burning bodies out through the front window (all whilst screaming with panic). When the barber simply replied "sure, what do you want to do with it?" I must've stood stunned and a truth be told a little disappointed for a good minute.
As a general rule I don't like barbers, they seem to have their own agenda, I say "this short" they go 2 inches shorter as though they get paid by the lb, so a trim becomes a full-on cut or a cut becomes a scalp. Most of the time I expect them to bat their mouths whilst yelling a native american war cry after they tell me what I owe them, I suppose the only thing that stops them doing that is that it would most likely stop you tipping them, and tip them you should because God knows they did more than you asked for.
This barber wasn't like that though, he actually listened to what I said, I couldn't believe it. I think I'll make him my barber wife or whatever you call the person you choose to cut your hair indefinitely. (Mental Note: I must be careful not to refer to him as my barber wife in any casual small talk we have as he cuts my hair, this may ruin the "relationship" and my hair)
SMASH!!!
That is the sound or rather the onomatopoeia of my diet going out the metaphorical window, well through it, like the imagined burning barbers. I wholeheartedly blame my wife who asked whether I could pick up some McDonald's for the kids. It was the same as sending a trembling, recovering alcoholic to the off licence to pick a drink up for them (a soft drink of course). I mean in fairness she did say she could have gone, but the damage was done, the psychological, diet murdering damage.
It wasn't a complete relapse, I did only have a chicken nugget happy meal .... (*whispering* with a double cheeseburger) .... It was more a "happy with a touch of guilt" meal, that said the happiness far outweighed the guilt, it didn't even have "guilt" written on the box.
I love McDonalds, to be honest I don't even know if I like the taste of the food, not because I hoover it like a starving dog (but I also DO do that) but I recall a business studies lesson I had many years ago which outlined the mental re-conditioning put upon you by companies of their like.
It goes that as a child McDonald's is generally considered a treat or reward so you hold it in good favour already, on top of that you get a toy with your meal, another reward simply for eating food that you like, not even factoring in that there's a good chance you will go to or even have your own party there at some point which will most likely harbour good memories of having fun playing with friends. That feeling doesn't leave you as an adult, so you find adults having McDonalds as they feel they "deserve" it or even feeling good or with the "warmth of their youth" eating them.
It's all very clever, genius in fact, it's there in the name "Happy" meal what other food tells you the emotion you should feel as you eat it? (Heinz are missing a trick with "You're feeling a bit better, Tomato Soup" though it's probably not quite as snappy)
It's so subtle and effective, I mean you would probably say something if every time you went to McDonalds your children were abducted by psychiatrists dressed as Ronald McDonald, the Hamburgalar and Grimace (The big purple thing, who you don't see any more, maybe they got rid as he looks like he's encouraging obesity ... and purpleness?) and were exposed to brainwashing propaganda videos with their eyes taped open. Yet the same thing is happening. Well obviously not exactly the same but the end results are similar, without the fear of clowns, burger thieves and overweight purple people you'd no doubt develop.
Anyway after the McDonalds the weekend descended into what can only be described as "take-out debauchery", but now I have clambered, greasy and satiated back on to the wagon.
Went to the football match, Villa v Sunderland, I expected McLeish to go for a draw, we drew, so he'll be happy, maybe he did lots of drawing as a child, I'm sure his work with a pencil is much better than that of a football manager, it wouldn't take more than a stickman to achieve this unfortunately. On the plus side a few fans behind me commented that with my new haircut I now "resemble a respectable member of society" they certainly know how to charm a fellow down at Villa Park, good work barber wife.
As a general rule I don't like barbers, they seem to have their own agenda, I say "this short" they go 2 inches shorter as though they get paid by the lb, so a trim becomes a full-on cut or a cut becomes a scalp. Most of the time I expect them to bat their mouths whilst yelling a native american war cry after they tell me what I owe them, I suppose the only thing that stops them doing that is that it would most likely stop you tipping them, and tip them you should because God knows they did more than you asked for.
This barber wasn't like that though, he actually listened to what I said, I couldn't believe it. I think I'll make him my barber wife or whatever you call the person you choose to cut your hair indefinitely. (Mental Note: I must be careful not to refer to him as my barber wife in any casual small talk we have as he cuts my hair, this may ruin the "relationship" and my hair)
SMASH!!!
That is the sound or rather the onomatopoeia of my diet going out the metaphorical window, well through it, like the imagined burning barbers. I wholeheartedly blame my wife who asked whether I could pick up some McDonald's for the kids. It was the same as sending a trembling, recovering alcoholic to the off licence to pick a drink up for them (a soft drink of course). I mean in fairness she did say she could have gone, but the damage was done, the psychological, diet murdering damage.
It wasn't a complete relapse, I did only have a chicken nugget happy meal .... (*whispering* with a double cheeseburger) .... It was more a "happy with a touch of guilt" meal, that said the happiness far outweighed the guilt, it didn't even have "guilt" written on the box.
I love McDonalds, to be honest I don't even know if I like the taste of the food, not because I hoover it like a starving dog (but I also DO do that) but I recall a business studies lesson I had many years ago which outlined the mental re-conditioning put upon you by companies of their like.
It goes that as a child McDonald's is generally considered a treat or reward so you hold it in good favour already, on top of that you get a toy with your meal, another reward simply for eating food that you like, not even factoring in that there's a good chance you will go to or even have your own party there at some point which will most likely harbour good memories of having fun playing with friends. That feeling doesn't leave you as an adult, so you find adults having McDonalds as they feel they "deserve" it or even feeling good or with the "warmth of their youth" eating them.
It's all very clever, genius in fact, it's there in the name "Happy" meal what other food tells you the emotion you should feel as you eat it? (Heinz are missing a trick with "You're feeling a bit better, Tomato Soup" though it's probably not quite as snappy)
It's so subtle and effective, I mean you would probably say something if every time you went to McDonalds your children were abducted by psychiatrists dressed as Ronald McDonald, the Hamburgalar and Grimace (The big purple thing, who you don't see any more, maybe they got rid as he looks like he's encouraging obesity ... and purpleness?) and were exposed to brainwashing propaganda videos with their eyes taped open. Yet the same thing is happening. Well obviously not exactly the same but the end results are similar, without the fear of clowns, burger thieves and overweight purple people you'd no doubt develop.
Anyway after the McDonalds the weekend descended into what can only be described as "take-out debauchery", but now I have clambered, greasy and satiated back on to the wagon.
Went to the football match, Villa v Sunderland, I expected McLeish to go for a draw, we drew, so he'll be happy, maybe he did lots of drawing as a child, I'm sure his work with a pencil is much better than that of a football manager, it wouldn't take more than a stickman to achieve this unfortunately. On the plus side a few fans behind me commented that with my new haircut I now "resemble a respectable member of society" they certainly know how to charm a fellow down at Villa Park, good work barber wife.
Friday, 20 April 2012
20th of April 2012 - Lionbarholics Anonymous
Still no carbs.
It's only day two, when people talk to me they take on the shape of the pasta which best fits their bodyshape but with mouths, like in an old Tom & Jerry cartoon. A bit of fusilli just asked me whether I can get a report done for the afternoon, no problem my twisted friend.
I should be able to break the addiction though, should be easy enough. I liken my "addictions" to firework rockets, I'm not a very good addict, I tend to get intensely obsessed with things like a series of books, PS3 games or, in the past, exercise where I have to do and know everything about the subject of my obsession but then as suddenly as the interest came on it wanes and something else has me hooked. An excellent example is that I've only ever "100% completed" one console game (and true to my "fireworks" I've had hundreds), "Harry Potter years 1-4" and I did this whilst I was reading the books and watching the films.
Similar in music, I don't have a favourite artist per se, no one person or band could possibly hold my interest for long enough to call me a fan so I'm left with an eclectic if not extreme mix of interests I chuckled to myself the other day as I listened to an old MP3 player (I had dug out of the recess of my PC draw) whilst I drove to work as it played alphabetically from UK Grime artist J.M.E to Kajagoogoo's "Too shy" from urban street to camp New Wave 80's .....
All of a sudden my thoughts have just been pulled to the idea of a Lion bar, they're dancing in my mind. I'd kill a lion for a lion bar right now, well I'd try, I doubt I'd have the energy as I've had no carbs.
Not to worry though I have chicken slices and a cherry muller light for lunch, who needs the sweet taste of Lion (the chocolate, not the animal, though lion meat would most likely be permitted on my diet unlike it's chocolate ,nobbly, bar-shaped namesake).
Added to my lunch, a small tub of lettuce, red onion, cucumber and a hard boiled egg, these are all diet legal, I wonder if I could eat the plastic tub that holds them? Probably not.
After sprinkling the chicken slices on the salad I sat to eat to the chimes of "what's that?" and "I didn't think men went on diets?" looking down at the meal I thought perhaps I'm not a man, perhaps I am a part goat person like Mr.Tumnus in the Chronicles of Narnia though after I finish my paltry meal it's highly unlikely I'll do a goat-man dance and play a merry tune on the flute, what I did do was pine at the lion bars sat in the confectionary section of the canteen.
It's only day two, when people talk to me they take on the shape of the pasta which best fits their bodyshape but with mouths, like in an old Tom & Jerry cartoon. A bit of fusilli just asked me whether I can get a report done for the afternoon, no problem my twisted friend.
I should be able to break the addiction though, should be easy enough. I liken my "addictions" to firework rockets, I'm not a very good addict, I tend to get intensely obsessed with things like a series of books, PS3 games or, in the past, exercise where I have to do and know everything about the subject of my obsession but then as suddenly as the interest came on it wanes and something else has me hooked. An excellent example is that I've only ever "100% completed" one console game (and true to my "fireworks" I've had hundreds), "Harry Potter years 1-4" and I did this whilst I was reading the books and watching the films.
Similar in music, I don't have a favourite artist per se, no one person or band could possibly hold my interest for long enough to call me a fan so I'm left with an eclectic if not extreme mix of interests I chuckled to myself the other day as I listened to an old MP3 player (I had dug out of the recess of my PC draw) whilst I drove to work as it played alphabetically from UK Grime artist J.M.E to Kajagoogoo's "Too shy" from urban street to camp New Wave 80's .....
All of a sudden my thoughts have just been pulled to the idea of a Lion bar, they're dancing in my mind. I'd kill a lion for a lion bar right now, well I'd try, I doubt I'd have the energy as I've had no carbs.
Not to worry though I have chicken slices and a cherry muller light for lunch, who needs the sweet taste of Lion (the chocolate, not the animal, though lion meat would most likely be permitted on my diet unlike it's chocolate ,nobbly, bar-shaped namesake).
Added to my lunch, a small tub of lettuce, red onion, cucumber and a hard boiled egg, these are all diet legal, I wonder if I could eat the plastic tub that holds them? Probably not.
After sprinkling the chicken slices on the salad I sat to eat to the chimes of "what's that?" and "I didn't think men went on diets?" looking down at the meal I thought perhaps I'm not a man, perhaps I am a part goat person like Mr.Tumnus in the Chronicles of Narnia though after I finish my paltry meal it's highly unlikely I'll do a goat-man dance and play a merry tune on the flute, what I did do was pine at the lion bars sat in the confectionary section of the canteen.
Thursday, 19 April 2012
19th of April 2012 - The Hunger Games
I am wandering through a decimated, post-apocalyptic wasteland, fighting for survival.
This land is my kitchen, that's right, my wife and I have agreed to a suicide pact, more conventionally known as a "diet".
This one is popular with her friends on Facebook apparently and has been getting all the usual rave reviews "You know so and so did it? She lost 15 stone in a week! She was only 13 stone to begin with!". I can't help but feel I'm missing a trick not going into the diet business, I could charge big fees and send hand written cards simply reading "Contract the Ebola Virus!" or "Lop off a Limb!" I bet that's not even illegal I mean obviously I wouldn't actually send the Ebola Virus or hacksaws in a jiffy bag, postage prices are ridiculous nowadays.
Anyway, my wife and I are at "Stage One" we can't eat carbs. No carbs!? I assume Stage Three is rigor mortis, I wonder how long it will be before I am reduced to some kind of carb zombie "Caaaaaaaarbs! Caaaaaaaarrbs!" with my wife pulling me away from chewing raw potatoes in the supermarket.
It hasn't always been like this, growing up I'd always been tall and skinny. I know to see me now, a life-sized Mr.Greedy (but wearing clothes - usually), you wouldn't believe it but I used to wish I could put on some weight. My wishes have become reality but not in the Disney way, in the evil, Eastenders way.
My body had led me to believe that my waistline was invincible, that a few crunches here and there and I could fill my face with McDonald's and cakes to my heart's content (well, not my heart's content obviously, I'm sure my heart would much prefer I steer clear of clogging it up with sweet, delicious fat), as time wore on I even started regularly working out, eating healthy, reading men's health mags and generally getting a bit buff. Then I met my lovely wife and my metabolism met it's nemesis. Happiness. The combination of laziness and being content with life has degraded me from a lean machine to a P reg., clapped out people carrier.
At work I'm sat at a desk split into a quadrant, four people facing the middle, directly opposite me is a large colour printer, it doesn't talk much, to my left is a level-headed, nice bloke, the type you'd expect would ask a stranger if his car needed a push if he saw them struggling. On my right is harsher, brash bloke. I generally wouldn't abide such a character but he is competent and I've found that is a surprisingly rare commodity so I can respect that. "Lefty" just offered me a McVities chocolate biscuit to go with my coffee (black with one sugar for diet purposes) I declined, unknown to him my simple "no, thanks" was the result of a near cataclysmic internal battle:
Little Devil Adam: Are you insane!? It's not JUST a chocolate biscuit, it's McVities!
Little Angel Adam: I'm pretty sure that's carbs and even if not....
Little Devil Adam: Carbs shmarbs! Get dipping, warm, wet biscuit, melted chocolatey goodness....
*Little Angel Adam knocks out Little Devil Adam with a sledgehammer and gives me a threatening look as his shoulders heave up and down with the ragged breath of effort*
I wonder if when he twisted the packet closed Lefty noticed the flash of pain and longing behind my eyes, this is definitely what it feels like when doves cry, well, when they're hungry anyway.
This land is my kitchen, that's right, my wife and I have agreed to a suicide pact, more conventionally known as a "diet".
This one is popular with her friends on Facebook apparently and has been getting all the usual rave reviews "You know so and so did it? She lost 15 stone in a week! She was only 13 stone to begin with!". I can't help but feel I'm missing a trick not going into the diet business, I could charge big fees and send hand written cards simply reading "Contract the Ebola Virus!" or "Lop off a Limb!" I bet that's not even illegal I mean obviously I wouldn't actually send the Ebola Virus or hacksaws in a jiffy bag, postage prices are ridiculous nowadays.
Anyway, my wife and I are at "Stage One" we can't eat carbs. No carbs!? I assume Stage Three is rigor mortis, I wonder how long it will be before I am reduced to some kind of carb zombie "Caaaaaaaarbs! Caaaaaaaarrbs!" with my wife pulling me away from chewing raw potatoes in the supermarket.
It hasn't always been like this, growing up I'd always been tall and skinny. I know to see me now, a life-sized Mr.Greedy (but wearing clothes - usually), you wouldn't believe it but I used to wish I could put on some weight. My wishes have become reality but not in the Disney way, in the evil, Eastenders way.
My body had led me to believe that my waistline was invincible, that a few crunches here and there and I could fill my face with McDonald's and cakes to my heart's content (well, not my heart's content obviously, I'm sure my heart would much prefer I steer clear of clogging it up with sweet, delicious fat), as time wore on I even started regularly working out, eating healthy, reading men's health mags and generally getting a bit buff. Then I met my lovely wife and my metabolism met it's nemesis. Happiness. The combination of laziness and being content with life has degraded me from a lean machine to a P reg., clapped out people carrier.
At work I'm sat at a desk split into a quadrant, four people facing the middle, directly opposite me is a large colour printer, it doesn't talk much, to my left is a level-headed, nice bloke, the type you'd expect would ask a stranger if his car needed a push if he saw them struggling. On my right is harsher, brash bloke. I generally wouldn't abide such a character but he is competent and I've found that is a surprisingly rare commodity so I can respect that. "Lefty" just offered me a McVities chocolate biscuit to go with my coffee (black with one sugar for diet purposes) I declined, unknown to him my simple "no, thanks" was the result of a near cataclysmic internal battle:
Little Devil Adam: Are you insane!? It's not JUST a chocolate biscuit, it's McVities!
Little Angel Adam: I'm pretty sure that's carbs and even if not....
Little Devil Adam: Carbs shmarbs! Get dipping, warm, wet biscuit, melted chocolatey goodness....
*Little Angel Adam knocks out Little Devil Adam with a sledgehammer and gives me a threatening look as his shoulders heave up and down with the ragged breath of effort*
I wonder if when he twisted the packet closed Lefty noticed the flash of pain and longing behind my eyes, this is definitely what it feels like when doves cry, well, when they're hungry anyway.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
18th April 2012 - Gizza Job
Been looking for a new job for a few weeks, I do have a job, I've had a job with a company for 8 years. Actually I've had a job since I was old enough to drag a ten megaton bag of the free press* up and down the wealthier side of my area whilst listening to my dad's old tape cassette single of MC Hammer's "Yo!! Sweetness" on repeat on a beat up white (with black tape in critical places) portable cassette player. I'd call it a "walkman" but to do so would offend Sony so greatly I'd probably have a lawsuit on my hands. If I remember rightly the player used to be my dad's and he'd got a better one, that probably wasn't difficult. There were some plus sides to it though, it had a radio on it so should the incessant yells of "Yo Sweetness! Is my weakness!" (radio edit and boilerhouse remix) grow tiresome or the cramping in my legs was so great I couldn't do "the running man" if I tried I could listen to perhaps a fuzzy version of the news or some sport and it was made before (or in spite of) companies deciding that they should probably limit the volume as deafened listeners/ customers will have no need for the next model.
Honestly I would crank it up to a point where it could have been any song in the world playing and it sounded like King Kong roaring at you and clapping you about the head on both sides in time to what might possibly have been music. Did the job though, took my mind off the sore, ink blackened fingers from posting papers through snapping letterboxes, the fact that I was sweating whilst it wasn't particularly warm and drowned out the angry dogs who it would seem weren't over keen on the free press, can't see why, it's free after all.
A good many years on though I'm not looking for a paper round, I'm spreading my wings and looking for something better suited to the skill sets I've developed (hark at me) and because my employers are self-important gits with no respect for my welfare and who have gravely misjudged my ability and contribution, not that I'm bitter of course.
I have a 42 mile round trip to work and "for business reasons" which haven't really been disclosed to me (because I know full well that the "reason" is merely the request of some almighty "God-Manager") my hours have been changed from 8-4 to 12-8, with the hour it takes me to get in and out of work I will rarely see my kids (particularly the 2 at school) and barely see my wife. After raising this issue the conversation went: (through the medium of my line manager of course, should a God-Manager himself speak to me I would surely be reduced to ash and dust in the wind!)
Me: But I won't see my family
Line Manager: Make a counter-proposal they (the God-Managers on high) may come around.
##I write an A4 sheet on why these hours don't make sense from a business standpoint and will be so detrimental to my family, particularly my wife who will in effect become a single mother of three and how I'll be forced to leave should the hours be put in place##
Line Manager: ....The role hours stand.
Me: So what happens if I refuse to work those hours?
Line Manager: That's where the role is going.
Me: Then I'll be actively seeking alternative employment.
Line Manager: OK.
"OK". After working for a supposedly "family friendly" company for 8 years, this particular contract for 5, I'm probably the only person on site who can do anything with a computer beyond make a colourful table and my potential departure is dismissed with "See ya!" I guess unemployment being what it is who am I but an easily replaced goldfish? Flush me, get the kids a new one, they'll never even know.
It's most annoying as I feel almost scoffed at by the God-Managers, to spend time with family is obviously a sacrifice they made some time ago, to work all the hours sent a week for exorbitant wages and flash company cars, I'd much rather ask my kids about their day, put them to bed and them know who I am than how much I can buy them and why their house is so big.
It's not the end of the world though, I'm relatively young, confident in my own ability and truth be told I'd outgrown my current role some time ago, I was just a mix of loyal, comfortable and lazy. Now I've been forced to do something I should already have been doing.
My fantastic wife has been the driving force, she's all over my CV urging me to say I'm Champion of the World, Master of the Universe, slayer of the wicked, defender of the weak..... I personally would have gone for the brutally honest route "I have a degree with computamajigs and can do stuff with big numbers well" but apparently her way is what everyone does. She seems to know best, I've not gone for a job for years, for all I know nowadays applicants must fight to the death gladiator style (in suit and tie of course) and there are so many applicants for every job she's put me in for this recruitment process would probably be more popular than you would think (it would also cut unemployment figures if the Government is reading this)
After a few knockback e-mails saying "if you don't hear anything from us, we don't want you" and then e-mails saying "yeah, we don't want you. We will keep your CV though just in case someone in HR decides to write a fictional novel and is short of random character names" my confidence buckled. We'd discussed other opportunities, me starting a business idea I'd thought of, but even in desperation I don't know if I'm brave enough to do that, or me being a stay at home dad, it'd be great to have all that time with the kids, but I've worked all my life, my dad has always worked, even when his health meant he couldn't do what he'd done since he could work he looked for another job. A friend said that his dad says "It's always easier to get a job when you're in a job" when I told him of my predicament, Ironically his dad helped get me a job opening boxes when I was 16 (when I'd hung up my dayglo, free press bag).
Since then I've had a couple of call backs and I'm being penned in for an interview with a big company with a local plant soon. So this goldfish needs a haircut and new suit, a considerably larger suit than the one I wore to my last interview.... and perhaps a sword and shield?
*Ironically I never received the free press myself.
Honestly I would crank it up to a point where it could have been any song in the world playing and it sounded like King Kong roaring at you and clapping you about the head on both sides in time to what might possibly have been music. Did the job though, took my mind off the sore, ink blackened fingers from posting papers through snapping letterboxes, the fact that I was sweating whilst it wasn't particularly warm and drowned out the angry dogs who it would seem weren't over keen on the free press, can't see why, it's free after all.
A good many years on though I'm not looking for a paper round, I'm spreading my wings and looking for something better suited to the skill sets I've developed (hark at me) and because my employers are self-important gits with no respect for my welfare and who have gravely misjudged my ability and contribution, not that I'm bitter of course.
I have a 42 mile round trip to work and "for business reasons" which haven't really been disclosed to me (because I know full well that the "reason" is merely the request of some almighty "God-Manager") my hours have been changed from 8-4 to 12-8, with the hour it takes me to get in and out of work I will rarely see my kids (particularly the 2 at school) and barely see my wife. After raising this issue the conversation went: (through the medium of my line manager of course, should a God-Manager himself speak to me I would surely be reduced to ash and dust in the wind!)
Me: But I won't see my family
Line Manager: Make a counter-proposal they (the God-Managers on high) may come around.
##I write an A4 sheet on why these hours don't make sense from a business standpoint and will be so detrimental to my family, particularly my wife who will in effect become a single mother of three and how I'll be forced to leave should the hours be put in place##
Line Manager: ....The role hours stand.
Me: So what happens if I refuse to work those hours?
Line Manager: That's where the role is going.
Me: Then I'll be actively seeking alternative employment.
Line Manager: OK.
"OK". After working for a supposedly "family friendly" company for 8 years, this particular contract for 5, I'm probably the only person on site who can do anything with a computer beyond make a colourful table and my potential departure is dismissed with "See ya!" I guess unemployment being what it is who am I but an easily replaced goldfish? Flush me, get the kids a new one, they'll never even know.
It's most annoying as I feel almost scoffed at by the God-Managers, to spend time with family is obviously a sacrifice they made some time ago, to work all the hours sent a week for exorbitant wages and flash company cars, I'd much rather ask my kids about their day, put them to bed and them know who I am than how much I can buy them and why their house is so big.
It's not the end of the world though, I'm relatively young, confident in my own ability and truth be told I'd outgrown my current role some time ago, I was just a mix of loyal, comfortable and lazy. Now I've been forced to do something I should already have been doing.
My fantastic wife has been the driving force, she's all over my CV urging me to say I'm Champion of the World, Master of the Universe, slayer of the wicked, defender of the weak..... I personally would have gone for the brutally honest route "I have a degree with computamajigs and can do stuff with big numbers well" but apparently her way is what everyone does. She seems to know best, I've not gone for a job for years, for all I know nowadays applicants must fight to the death gladiator style (in suit and tie of course) and there are so many applicants for every job she's put me in for this recruitment process would probably be more popular than you would think (it would also cut unemployment figures if the Government is reading this)
After a few knockback e-mails saying "if you don't hear anything from us, we don't want you" and then e-mails saying "yeah, we don't want you. We will keep your CV though just in case someone in HR decides to write a fictional novel and is short of random character names" my confidence buckled. We'd discussed other opportunities, me starting a business idea I'd thought of, but even in desperation I don't know if I'm brave enough to do that, or me being a stay at home dad, it'd be great to have all that time with the kids, but I've worked all my life, my dad has always worked, even when his health meant he couldn't do what he'd done since he could work he looked for another job. A friend said that his dad says "It's always easier to get a job when you're in a job" when I told him of my predicament, Ironically his dad helped get me a job opening boxes when I was 16 (when I'd hung up my dayglo, free press bag).
Since then I've had a couple of call backs and I'm being penned in for an interview with a big company with a local plant soon. So this goldfish needs a haircut and new suit, a considerably larger suit than the one I wore to my last interview.... and perhaps a sword and shield?
*Ironically I never received the free press myself.
14th/15th April 2012 - Horses for Courses?
It was Grand National weekend, I've never really followed horse racing in any kind of way, though I know it is regarded as "the sport of kings" I more widely associate it with old men falling out of bookies wearing grubby, grey, diamond patterned jumpers (regardless of the time of year) and carrying cans of extra strong lager (regardless of the time of day) They don't appear to be of royal lineage. That probably says more about where I'm from than horse racing as a sport but it's been a sufficient deterrent for my interest.
The Grand National seems to be some portal however where everyone, prince to pauper, should be involved. This is made no more clear than it dominating BBC's Saturday TV schedule and one of my senior managers shaking a plastic jar at me and charging me £2 to pull out the name of a horse that for all I know he's completely made up (mental note: Try that myself next year). If I had a horse I'd call it "John" or "Rob" or something, just a normal bloke's name, even if it was a mare, no, ESPECIALLY if it was a mare, none of this "Purple Blunderbuss III" nonsense.
As I watched it (and I think it was the first time I ever had), my oldest daughter (7) after a few fences and tumbles and horses aimlessly continuing the race with no riders said "this is cruel" which I thought was quite an emotive comment from her. I know in some circles this is regarded as the case, that horse racing is cruel. I saw a horse that we had taken a shine to "Synchronised" had died after fracturing his legs in the race (before hand he had somehow evaded his rider and was freely running around until caught and calmed for the race which the family found entertaining) I see they argue that it's not cruel as horses love running and jumping. That's a rubbish argument, I love playing my PS3, would I love it so much if I was forced to play a particular game whilst ridden and whipped by a small man in a gaudy coloured jacket as other blokes also ridden by little men jumped over the back of my sofa, sometimes landing on me wearing metal shoes? I can imagine not so much. Another argument was that horses jump and break their legs outside of racing. An argument I'll remember should I ever find my self defending a murder rap. "your honour, he would have died at some point anyway if I hadn't done it so I bid for immediate release.”
It wasn't all doom and gloom as we rolled into Sunday and I prepared to watch my beloved Aston Villa on my laptop. No wait it WAS all doom and gloom as they slumped to another defeat by the end of which I had already stopped watching to clean out my daughters' guinea pigs, it's time to start questioning the team when guinea pig droppings are deemed respite from the match and when you consider watching your team on a foreign stream akin to watching your best mate tortured to death on a terrorist network, really awful.
This all said I must remain resolute as I have children to indoctrinate/ brainwash to the cause. My four year old daughter came to a match this season (We lost, 4-2 to Chelsea) but she really enjoyed it, it took the sting out of defeat as I marched back to the car with her on my shoulders still proudly clutching her new pink Villa scarf and waving a rather large Aston Villa flag. Even the grumbling fellow home fans smiled as they saw her steadfast support and refusal to let simple things like being pathetic and losing dent her spirit. It didn't take the sting out of my shoulders, back and legs however, holding her up to see for the whole match and parking so far away were errors with retrospect.
Friday, 13 April 2012
13th April 2012 - Sorry You're Leaving
Had a "Sorry you're leaving" card shoved under my nose by a morale Nazi this morning, don't really know the person leaving so I'm not particularly "sorry" but under the threat of an over enthusiastic smile and ball point pen I opened it.
The usual "good luck"s and the odd in-joke, you know the sort, "next time use the cat-flap! LOL!" or whatever.
I toy with the idea of writing "I don't know who you are but if your leaving is detrimental to my work load at all then I am indeed sorry - Adam x" I didn't write that, I thought that it would take up an excessive amount of space considering I didn't know them.
The alternative of course was to draw on the least used of the constantly recycled "wishes" I went with "all the best - Adam" no kiss, don't want her to get the wrong idea do I.
All the best, I'm sure she'll shed a tear over that one. Do I actually wish her all the best? I mean call me selfish but I'd much prefer "the best" for myself and people I actually know.
Oh well, too late now, I've written it and it was in ball point pen, I'd have to scribble it out and that would seem callous, would tipp-ex be callous? No forget it, then I'd have to think of something else to write and I've already invested too much into this stranger's card.
I've handed the card back and I'm left thinking if her life is filled with "all the best" what is left for the rest of us? If it is she had better find me out and thank me, she owes me big time.
The usual "good luck"s and the odd in-joke, you know the sort, "next time use the cat-flap! LOL!" or whatever.
I toy with the idea of writing "I don't know who you are but if your leaving is detrimental to my work load at all then I am indeed sorry - Adam x" I didn't write that, I thought that it would take up an excessive amount of space considering I didn't know them.
The alternative of course was to draw on the least used of the constantly recycled "wishes" I went with "all the best - Adam" no kiss, don't want her to get the wrong idea do I.
All the best, I'm sure she'll shed a tear over that one. Do I actually wish her all the best? I mean call me selfish but I'd much prefer "the best" for myself and people I actually know.
Oh well, too late now, I've written it and it was in ball point pen, I'd have to scribble it out and that would seem callous, would tipp-ex be callous? No forget it, then I'd have to think of something else to write and I've already invested too much into this stranger's card.
I've handed the card back and I'm left thinking if her life is filled with "all the best" what is left for the rest of us? If it is she had better find me out and thank me, she owes me big time.
Thursday, 12 April 2012
12th April 2012 - Charlie's Angels
Took the kids to the childminder on the way to work today. My lovely wife had already dressed the little scamps, I was left with the task of fashioning their hair into styles accepted by the outside world.
Probably not even a task for most, women especially it seems. So as I stared at the brush, the spray and two of my daughters I couldn't help but pity them as I pulled from one of only two styles I'm capable of achieving.
These are either a single pony tail which screams "I have no mother!!!" or some 70's style Charlie's Angel- esque do. I don't know why but as I pull the brush through their hair it seemingly inflates, I can only hope for their sake the 70's are in as when I offered to put a bobble in the hair of the older (4) of the two girls she said "no!" as though I'd asked if she wanted me to throw her off a cliff, she obviously wants to appear as though she has a mother even if this mother obviously has an affinity for 1970's Americana.
My 6 month old son on the other hand was no problem, in 2 minutes I had given him a "comb over" which gave me pause to remark "you'll be beating off the girl babies with a stick son, yes you will!" he smiled as I thought he probably will, since he's yet to walk or crawl and pulling hair and striking people seem to be his favoured form of communication.
Probably not even a task for most, women especially it seems. So as I stared at the brush, the spray and two of my daughters I couldn't help but pity them as I pulled from one of only two styles I'm capable of achieving.
These are either a single pony tail which screams "I have no mother!!!" or some 70's style Charlie's Angel- esque do. I don't know why but as I pull the brush through their hair it seemingly inflates, I can only hope for their sake the 70's are in as when I offered to put a bobble in the hair of the older (4) of the two girls she said "no!" as though I'd asked if she wanted me to throw her off a cliff, she obviously wants to appear as though she has a mother even if this mother obviously has an affinity for 1970's Americana.
My 6 month old son on the other hand was no problem, in 2 minutes I had given him a "comb over" which gave me pause to remark "you'll be beating off the girl babies with a stick son, yes you will!" he smiled as I thought he probably will, since he's yet to walk or crawl and pulling hair and striking people seem to be his favoured form of communication.
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