faustus: (Default)
( Jun. 8th, 2012 09:55 am)
I have twelve sacks of recycling waiting to be collected. I have conceded I will never read those newspapers. Good job the bags are full, or they might blow away. Neighbours' bags are jaywalking. I'm hoping the bunting blows away - it sounds like rain on the windows rather than the flappy noise of the breeze. I have disturbed much dust and am still at the stage when the house looks no tidier. Need to offload jiffy bags on someone, and boxes. Maybe they can live in the shed for a while. Spare room needs cosmetic work, but will have to remain where stuff gets dumped. The dining room table keeps appearing. The stairs are no longer a death trap.

Plumber who said he'd come at 9.30 arrived at 8.30. Cheaper than I feared, but angle grinder is needed. Might be able to fit me in next week, but unlikely.

Have listened to an album by Charles Vaughan. Wonders if Abby Grant has one too. Reminded me of the Scanner album I heard.

Back to bed for an hour, I fear.

Must remember it's Chris Addison tonight, although I suspect I've seen this show twice already. If the weather's like this, I shan't be walking back, though I badly need the exercise.
I am operating on about four hours sleep as I inadvertently defrosted the freezer last night (the trays were beginning to stick) and it wasn't helped by the pub being noisy until 1.30am, which is when I finally went to bed. It wasn't fully defrosted at 3am, and probably was by 8.00, when I awoke and was by 9.30 when I got up. Last time I defrosted the freezer, it died. Yeesterday was clearly not the day to buy ice cream. I have phoned the council and the police to complain. More about the noise than the freezer. Although the freezer has made odd noises

I heard, as a result, about two hours of coverage of the proposed Bacefook flotation. It seems to me that it is vastly over valued with no real sense of how the business can expand and be monetised without further alienating their users. This is going to end well, yes? Maybe this is why I have a G+ account, although I don't like the way Google feels your life is better when interwoven (do I want to be told that someone else has done the same search as me?)

I have to invigilate an exam this afternoon, but have not received the confirmation email. I phoned to check, but realised that the Examinations office phone number is actually the Calzone number the high level, two-way, interactive bottleneck helpline which last year became student-only and assistants can be bollocked for assisting staff. The staff number or, rather, numbers are not apparent, and presumably need another level of clicky to get to direct line numbers. I was put through to the sports centre, which appears to be where I needed to be put through to. (I note that three weeks ago I was emailed by the Calzone - who in a Priestly manner can talk to you even if you are not allowed to talk to them - to tell me that my computer issue had been resolved. Since this was for a problem I had not raised, at a time when I was still in bed, I was even more confused than usual. Turns out they inputted the wrong name in their records. Heigho.)
faustus: (Culture)
( Jun. 13th, 2011 03:24 pm)
There was a photography exhibition at Whitechapel I wanted to catch, and a possibility that the NPG would be selling a catalogue cheap for the last week of their exhibition, so I thought I'd head into London on Sunday. 8am train, but it's going to Charing Cross rather than Victoria, but that's perfect for the NPG... Only the East End is always cut off from central London on Sundays (Whitechapel is right next to Aldgate East - but that's no use if AE is shut). The train stops at London Bridge, not quite walkable, but there's a route via Moorgate.

But I need a coffee and I've got a spare hour, so Bux wifi leaching and download that late essay I need to mark. London Bridge Bux is not a sit down place, and I realise I don't have my loyalty card, so I tube it to Liverpool Street Station where there is a Bux and it's close to the one near Spitalfields if that's busy. Liverpool Street don't take the card anyway. The wifi is flaky, my iTouch won't register, but I get a slow signal on the Mac Book so I get the essay, set up a new FlickR account and discover my direct debit via my credit card didn't get transferred to the new card. Grr.

At this point I consider going home.

I start walking - it is raining, my trainers are leaking - and I find an Eat to use their wifi to sync the iTouch. I then take a short cut through Spitalfields faintly in search of food - but I've picked the non food route and it's full of people who don't know how to walk. I am also heading away from Whitechapel, but it takes a couple of minutes to realise. Having failed with the interesting I go for the supposedly cheering KFC next to the galery, having unexpectedly found exactly the right shortcut.

Paul Graham photos great, government art collection good, This is Whitechapel photos interesting, Frank Sandford sculptures barking. Worth the trip, but the bookshop is a bottle neck.

I don't have the energy for the NPG, but I need M&S socks so I foolishly elect to go to Oxford Street - alhtough maybe Marble Arch might have been quieter. It is also take a while to find since I have a street number, and the buildings don't. I just about headed off right. Socks bought, after a failure to do so in Westwood Chaos on Saturday.

Need more coffee and a recharge of the Mac by then, and find a Bux where I sync, then decide I might as well do a couple of hours work there as head back to Victoria and work there, or just head back. A productive time, and I cut it fine for the train - hitting the Wizard of Oz matinee crowd with their killer umbrellas and inability to walk.

Today, I have had a l-o-n-g meeting, and now can't decide to go home via the library to pick up a reserved volume or go to a coffee shop and Oxfam - the opposite direction. To avoid being a donkey, I've written this whine instead.
A day trip to London - a painless trip to the Whitechapel Art Gallery; train to Victoria then District to Aldgate East rather than the five changes suggested on Travel Direct. (Why did I not remember that Aldgate East is adjacent to the gallery? I wonder if I've always used the wrong exit despite explicit signage?)

Less painless down to Blackheath - via a mistaken use of self-service checkout at Major Supermarket, whose own brand credit cards work everywhere in the world bar Major Supermarket, and whose divi scheme works neither when I want points but pay by cash nor want points but pay by the same card. There's nothing on the card to scan. I pressed the same button as instructed several times.

Walk from there to Whitechapel station and the Overground - which seems actually somewhat underground to me. Two observations, the announcement that a train will stop at all destinations to West Croydon is misleading if there's nothing on the platform to tell you which these are (and New Cross clearly is one of them, but I wouldn't necessarily know that; I cannot remember how New Cross and New Gate relate to each other) and simultaneous announcements on adjacent platforms make both inaudible. I got there.

Last time I went - I believe the day of the Clarkes - I failed to check for opening times on their website and so didn't know (by looking at the contact page on their website) they closed on Wednesday. This being a Thursday, they'd be open, right?


Closed for half term.

I've now checked their website, but there's nothing telling me that.

Oddly enough, the place just appeared on House Gift, with one of the designers spotting something in their window. It wasn't clear that this was filmed on a Wednesday, but the place was shut. Is the Bookshop on the Heath ever open?

I realised I could get back via Gillingham rather than going back into Victoria, but it was an epic journey and I suspect it shaves off only a couple of minutes.

Today... slept in, bad encounter with door to door electricity rep, and seem to have been answering emails. Have I time to read drafts? I suspect not. Not today, anyway.
faustus: (Default)
( Jan. 12th, 2011 06:57 pm)
  1. I have spent all day with three books and a back issue at my side, to write 400 words on Anne McCaffrey. I have yet to write any of them, but the rest of the chapter is drafted and I've rewatched Lord of the Rings which, my 14 year old self to the contrary, is actually reasonably good.

  2. I have followed the first rule of skips and chucked the dead piece of my fence (from about four winters back) into it - it's right outside my house, the builders* woke me up as they have every day I've been here since early December and they've been allowed to use my back yard as a short cut.

  3. I have a home made fish pie in the oven, having found trout in the freezer and opened a tin of something, maybe sardines.

* And no, Lamentables, these are not ones you'd want to have a diet coke break.
faustus: (Angry)
( Nov. 12th, 2010 11:07 am)
So I close down the computer about midnight, perform my ablutions, finally finish Cirque, one last check of a couple of communication sites - notice Sherlock Holmes has a profile on one of them

("Though I disagree with the imposed barriers of sexual orientation and believe that all human interaction is meaningless (my body is transport, nothing else) I have decided to create a profile for myself. If nothing else, it shall be an interesting study on the idiocy of the generic Internet user and shall give me something to laugh over in the rare evenings that I am not busy." What do people spot first: "My piercing green/grey/blue eyes.
My entirely natural ebony tresses.
My colossal height.
My panther-rolling-in-a-cello voice.")

and turn light out.

Tick tick.

Cue cat. Purr purr. Ding Ding. Purr.

2.00am need pee.

2.10am, radio turns off. Hit it to turn it back on. If there were something I wanted to listen to, then I could sleep. They can't decide if a Chinese vase sold for $7m or $70m.

2.30am cat goes out through cat flap.

3.00am cat reappears. Wants to be under covers. Purr purr. Poke poke. I want to go out all day tomorrow. still, I could get six hours sleep.

3.10am, radio turns off. Cat absents herself. Get up. I don't have any cheese (if I have nightmares then at least I'm asleep) so I have a scotch egg.

4.00am cat uses bladder as trampoline. I need the thicker duvet on. Go for pee.

4.10, radio turns off. Clearly making no odds.

8.00 wake. Yes, I sleep through the news. But there are interesting items on after it, and I hear them all. And Ian McMillan on DID. He chooses 4'33" as his single track. Genuis.

9.50 time to get up. I'll be out tonight, but today feels cancelled. I need to be near a bed.
faustus: (Comedy)
( Oct. 8th, 2010 01:47 am)
I stand at a cusp. One direction, things could be very good indeed. The other, not so good. Well, not necessarily worse than now, although there will be self doubts and hurt feelings. Mainly my own.

To suspect that both paths would lead to the same place is distinctly glass half empty thinking - and perhaps someone should get this water tested.

In any case, I am filled with a sense of foreboding.

I now that I am probably filled with a sense of foreboding because I am not sleeping as much as I should. And I am not sleeping because - not actually a sense of foreboding, but rather the things which is causing foreboding and/or excitement.

In Australia I was crashing in the early evening. I went back to the hotel via a supermarket and watched dvds - including a British sf series which make Blakes Seven look about as grim as Red Dwarf, and was generally asleep by 10.

The jetlag meant that once I was home I was in bed by, if not midnight, then at a reasonable hour. For once I was going to bed the same day I got up, rather than getting up the same day I went to bed.

Things, evidently, have slipped.

And even on days I'm getting to bed at 1.30, I'm not sleeping. Not until gone 3.00.

Like tonight.

Did you know digital Radio 4 moves from World Service to BBC Schools at 2am GMT?

And so I am facing petty annoyances.

The road about ten metres from my house is about to be closed for two weeks. This is going to be chaos. I don't drive, but it's already a rat run.


The HS1 trains are going to be suspended during the Olympics. I don't use it very often, but I'm happy it's there for when I do, especially if I want to go north. Locally we've trailed having training camps in the area - the new sports facilities off campus are reserved for some nationality or other. Apparently they won't be going to Stratford So-Called International by train after all. And should I want to go to the Olympics, I will need to take a long way round. Mostly, I think, I shall go east.


I need a third thing but I can't think of it.


If I try now, maybe I can get to bed by 2am.
faustus: (Comedy)
( Apr. 21st, 2010 09:55 pm)
I was out for a walk eighteen months ago when my knee it went boing. This was the climax of the Chartham to Canterbury walk, and most likely achieved when climbing over a gate and putting feet in opposing directions. I've been careful about exercise since, wary about boing again, not wanting more pain.

And this Easter vacation has been about trying to wind down, before the study leave kicks in, whilst wanting to Get On. I know how I deal with being tired. It makes me tired. So mostly I keep going, and keep going, and that is that. Stopping is usually the mistake. I thought I had programmed in down time this term, but it does feel full on in retrospect, and even times away have not been down times. Hotels are not offline.

There's been a kind of non-specific flu-ey sorta thing around since Easter, and Easter was weird because of the need to tidy up and having a bit of a panic attack having suddenly felt very content and belonging. Friday, despite feeling shit, I went up to London for a meeting, and afterwards spent three hours with a Phd student at St Panx Bux. I took a slower route home so I didn't have to walk this end, and retired to The Doves for some binging.

Next day: ouch. Not only did I all but sleep through the day, but the knee was aching again. I had a bath and bought a paper, and then limped to the bus stop to see a comedian. I discovered the shop was shut and the cafe didn't do sandwiches, so foodwise I had to made do with two fruit salads, a giant biscuit and a small tub of Pringles. I nearly left the comedian at the interval. I ignored instinct and went back to the pub, but the person who I thought wanted to talk was not there after all. Hobbled home. Slowly.

More pain Sunday. Watch Doctor Who, Heroes (I fear I am too far oerstepped now to give up) and nearly got stuck in the sofa. Laminate floors are a nightmare when you are having difficulties standing up. Feet just slip. I can get into bed, but by a sort of somersault - getting out is more complex. My right leg will not bend - I feel like I have glass paper at the top of my leg. I take more of the industrial strength paracetemols I have from last time. I've slept for about half the day.

Laptops are no use without a proper lap, and rested on a chest is hard to operate. I can't type clearly enough without seeing the keyboard. Not from this angle.

Monday I make a doctor's appointment, but he can't see me until 7.20. Some of the day I can spend in bed. The news is dull - or too surreal. A volcano. A LibDem landslide. I seem to hear the same three programmes trailed. I know In Our Time is on line. I thought it had been for years. There is, of course, the toilet - and I cannot easily sit down. I can however look away now ). Dressing is fun - left foot will go into trouser leg, right foot... will hardly lift up and clear the cloth. When it does I can't bend down to pull them up. Socks will have to do. These shoes don't get tied, but need loosening to fit. Eventually I know it's time to go - but to deal with the OCD I have to make sure the door's shut and locked before I phone a taxi. It's a bit of a shuffle to get in - I have to pick up my right leg. The driver cheerfully tells me how bad damaged knees can be. I manage to sit in the waiting room, and to stand again, and eventually have to hobble through. It's the doctor I saw for my Bp three or four years back - the supposedly empathetic one, who forgot to tell me about fasting before blood and urine tests. It doesn't seem as bad as it might be, but it be slow.

Monday is another early night and Tuesday I face the issue of one or two trips to town - I have a therapy session, but not til four, and I need to get the pills he's prescribed. I don't want to go to come back, or hang round, but I need to leave enough time. There's also the matter of whether I've enough cash for a cab. I stay in bed in the morning - seduced by a nature programme which dropped the item it has trailed all morning. A documentary on madness in nineteenth century literature has the gall to be called Madwomen in the Attic, despite a) only one of the three spend time in an attic and b) they've interviewed the coauthor of The Madwoman in the Attic and not thanked her for the title. I receive a second email warning me a parcel may be delayed due to the volcano. I'd thought it would be coming from the UK? I specifically ordered one for the speed of it. Tilda decides she likes sleeping on my right knee. Geroyafookeeurgh is my repeated response.

I find a time when I judge it safe to call a taxi - leave the house, lock the door, call a cab - and it's only after I'm in that he suggests I could have gone in the front. I ask to be taken to the bank, but he forgets, and goes to Boots - but fortunately it's under a fiver so I've the money to pay. I fill the prescription, then limp to a sport shop for a support bandage. I explain I need to know where to look because I don't want to hobble all over the shop - and I discover two kinds, both out of reach. Eventually I get the goods and hobble to therapy. I should have cancelled. Three flights narrow stairs. Yah. Even normal stairs are difficult: raise left foot and push, pull right leg and together. Downstairs, lower right foot - try to avoid adding weight - lower left foot together. I ponder whether it's quicker to walk home or for a taxi from there. Not much in it, but my hobble is slower, despite being much better today. Sitting down clearly hurt. There's a taxi I can climb into, and it gets home quicker than envisaged -- there is not much of a rush hour. Now to take three pills in five hours... Tilda seems to be happy to let the incomer eat her dinner. She is being lazier than I.

I've sat for an hour or so at my desk on Tuesday, Wednesday afternoon I spent there, answering student emails, trying not to gnash too many teeth. We have our first volcano excuse. The radio was dull - with a comedy which makes you wonder how they can produce diamonds like The Vote Now Show and this dross, much ruder and unfunnier than the comedy which apparently used the word wanker at 6.30 recently. The parcel arrived, from Greenwich, and hasn't been under a volcano as far as I can see. I have a degree of bend in my leg I didn't have yesterday, but my back is complaining - either from too much lying or twists to sit up. Getting out of bed can now be done in less than five minutes. It takes a certain amount of work to straighten my leg again, but it's not as painful as it was yesterday. Tilda has been skittish all day, but shows no sign of wishing to engage with invading cats. She does, however, view my leg with some desire. Maybe there is some magic cat cure she can provide. Maybe not.
I seem to be in close down mode - a low level cold for about ten days now, not only necessitating early nights but pretty well sleeping through. Saturday was mostly spent in bed, with the added joy that my knee has again gone boing.

I foolishly went to the Carbuncle - Andrew Clover's Dads Rules is frankly dull - and naturally assumed the campus shop would be open. Ha. So the cafe has sandwiches. Ha. Hobble to bed and sleep through, catching most of The Archers, and bits and pieces of other stuff. I watch Doctor Who and Heroes and largely wish I hadn't.

I phone for an appointment with the doctor - and have a 720 appointment. Cheers. Any pharmacy within hobbling distance will be shut by then. Ponders whether I should cancel tomorrow's therapy session; Katy Brand tomorrow night, but maybe I'd better beg off that.
And so a long term comes to an end, a term dominated by marking and more arguments over marks and extensions than I can remember, with many of those arising from students I have been generous to. I don't think I've been any harsher than normal, but entitlement is all over the place. I feel micromanaged, second guessed and undermined.

Perhaps the study leave around the corner has caused an exhaustion to emerge, as I weigh up the urge to get on with the need to take time out. But there are still jobs to do:

  • Write resit questions
  • Comment on module questionnaires
  • Deal with annual reports for doctoral students
  • Comment on two dissertations
  • Mark essay which has been resubmitted
  • Mark essay from student given long extension
  • Check and if necessary mark essay from student who had mitigating circumstances
  • See doctoral student in London

Is the word I'm searching for asymtopic? Jobs left to do tend towards zero, but never reach it?
faustus: (Comedy)
( Mar. 7th, 2010 10:26 pm)
I spent the bulk of the weekend in Leicester, having decided to go to the second day of a two day horror conference, in part to feed into my horror module. However, a crisis blew up that I was in borderline contact with so I was waiting for gaps so I could check my laptop.

The bad news with being able to keep in touch with email on your phone is it works both ways. And when did people get into the mentality that assumes you are hanging around, waiting for their email?

In retrospect, I don't think I would have gone if I'd realised that it was just screenings and an interview and a panel, the papers being on the Thursday, a day I was teaching, but shot off at two to catch a train.

And just to note, not a single woman's voice was heard all day. (As SFX knows, women don't do horror.) I'm assuming no women write, direct or produce British horror films. They do scream, but she couldn't make it. There was an interview with a veteran director, by someone who is an expert, but has interviewed him countless times, with someone who looked like a grad student. A white, male grad student.

I note the Phoenix Cinema - which felt like a nice lively space - has now moved from the city centre to the cultural quarter, hidden away from the Curve, the new theatre. It is just about signed - and I can't tell whether it's been shoved into a crap existing building or whether this was new. Half of it appears to be flats, which is maybe taking mixed usage too far. I'm not sure I'd be happy walking there after dark.

Saturday I shot over to Nottingham, for reason which don't bear examining. I timed it badly for the secondhand bookshop, and still didn't go to Hurts Yard as planned last time. To be honest, I spent too long with a lap top in a coffee shop.

I went to the current exhibition at Nottingham Contemporary, which did little for me, but saw the Return to Solaris film.

I left earlier than planned - the energy level was flagging - and was driven mad by a comedy passenger, who had a small dog and a miniature bottle of champagne, an Equity diary, wasn't sure she was on the right train and didn't sit down in the half hour I was in her company. I wasn't sure whether she was being played by Prunella Scales or Joanna Lumley, or maybe Barbara Wodehouse. Patricia Routledge on a bad day. Meryl Streep trying to outbrit Zelwegger.

I had time thus to go to the surviving secondhand book shop, which is more interested in frams and hangs them in front of books. The sf section is in a dark wedged-shaped space, which I more or less fill by standing in it. God knows how he sells anything. Maybe he doesn't

For the second day running, my keycard didn't work. Do they reset them every day?

Only if housekeeping's been in.

Yes, then.

Wherever you put the towel, it doesn't seem to matter, they wash the bugger, despite what they claim about trying to save money the environment. And they don't replace the coffee. Good job I'd brought my own.

Hunting around more leads me to the conclusion that no one gets rid of Star Trek DVDs. I've yet to see The Motion Sickness second hand.

I took six books with me and read one. One day I will take one and have nothing to read.

Still, I watched five films on DVD.

That side of the hotel is next to the nightclubs. I don't recall it being loud on the west side.

Continental breakfast is not toast, cereal, jam, croissant and slices of processed cheese.

Despite the failure of the seat reserving system, the journey back was painless, using the slow version of the HST via Rochester because of engineering. Journey time less than 3 1/2 hours.

I needed a week end away. Not sure this was it.
Every time I hear the words "You now have three options." I heard this three or four times phoning a helpline, only to find that I need to go on line to do something that presumably they could do with the clicky. And I don't see why I need a ten digit identity when I was issued a seven digit one when I turned sixteen.

And now I need to go forth and purchase cheese, and ham, and, because the veg box was insufficiently season, brussels and spuds. Thank god it is raining rather than snowing.

I also need to do a post office, and buy a present or two, because I am crap waaaa. This needs to be done by three, and I hold out little hope. What happened to being out by noon?

I also need to work out why my cat is punching me in the middle of the night. You know purr purr purr. Leap. Punch. Purr purr purr.

My plan was to watch the Godfather trilogy on Christmas Day, but right now the luxury, the present to myself, would be to sit down and write a chapter of the seventies book. Because I really need to get it moving out of my head.

faustus: (Angry)


( Nov. 25th, 2009 10:46 am)
So, rather than anticipate in advance a fault I had last week, I have to report it when it happens and hope I don't look like so much of a loser when it goes wrong. (And I have overheard students laughing at staff inability to use equipment.)

I can contact the helpdesk by a) emailing them (assuming it's not a problem logging on) or b) phoning them - it is an advance to have a contact number that's a direct line rather than an extension number (unlike, say, first aid) but of course it runs aground on there not being a phone in any of the teaching rooms.

Ah, am I expected to pay for the call on my mobile?

I have checked, and having climbed on a table to open the cubboard with the projector in it, and logged on, the equipment is working and we do have volume.
faustus: (cinema)
( Nov. 16th, 2009 12:43 am)
Tonight, after a weekend of prevarication, I marked a batch of essays.

Students are their own worst enemies - increasing numbers are printing out single space and (I'm not sure why this annoys me but it does) on both sides of the paper. Italicising film titles (like I do on the lecture slides) seems to be out, save for where it is also in quotation marks, and those students who also italicise every quotation, date and reference irrespective of the source or its need to be italicised.

Too many of them are simply writing about a film (although at least aren't just summarizing the plot) as if the question I've set is just for the sake of my health. Which clearly it isn't. If the question is on the sublime, cognition, estrangement, define these terms. Maybe even use them occasionally.

Given the library resources (an atrium big enough to house 94 double decker buses) it is hardly surprising that dead tree references are rarer then hen's teeth, but despite precise instructions Kuhn and Redmond tend to be quoted rather than Bukatman or Sontag who wrote that chapter. If any of the students - notice that word there, any - had come to see me, I might have been able to point them towards the secondary literature on Blade Runner, The Matrix, Dark City. Some of it is on JSTOR.

And a special prize to a student whose six quotations were all taken from the lecture, despite all being from sources readily available on line thanks to Google or Gutenberg.
faustus: (Default)
( Oct. 1st, 2009 09:53 am)
The phantom driller is drowning out the forensics class opposite.
faustus: (Angry)
( Jun. 30th, 2009 12:01 pm)
Today and Friday I am on annual leave.

So far today I have: slept until 5.00, fed cats and gone back to bed till 10.30 due to hangover.

Spent an hour dealing with a work issue.

Spent fifteen minutes dealing with an artistic work issue.

I am currently running a bath; I will have a slow bath.

This afternoon I shall be writing - yes, I know that that is work, but the power that is insists we sign up for leave. I will have seven days left over at the end of the academic leave year as it is.

Those evenings and weekends - not set off against leave. Officially, anyway.
faustus: (gorilla)
( Nov. 11th, 2008 12:56 am)
- I went to work on Monday afternoon to second mark oral presentations, and chose the worst part of today's rain storm to do it in. It was like a power shower and enough to bring branches off trees - small branches, yes, but branches nevertheless.

Bears had been trying to store hunney pots on them.

It reminded me of day one in Edinburgh: Mark Watson at the Pleasance. I was already soggy waiting to queue up, and then even soggier when I was queueing. The show was very steamy. I then had the best part of any hour to get across to the Assembly Rooms.

I had already realised that Edinburgh streets run north-south and east-west, but I hadn't figured that one axis is higher than the other and they don't intersect. Rather than ascending Nidry Street (which I had earlier descended in search of Graham's venue) I assumed I could take a later right turn. The first right turn seemed to curve back on itself - although I think had I gone further I would have ended up on George IV Bridge, which would have done. There were rather dark sets of stairs through twichells, but soon it appeared there was a sodding volcano in the way. I circumnavigated this, and eventually must had been back on Princes Street, but my map was disintegrating and my glasses were opaque with rain. I waylaid various people to ask directions, but there are several Assembly Rooms and no one had heard of Rose Lane, the street parallel to the one I wanted. Eventually I crossed Princes Street and went up the hill, but I had no way of telling if I were east or west of the venue. I found a posh looking hotel and asked, and I was about a block down. I had about two minutes to get to something you needed to be ten minutes early for.

Edinburgh's Comedy Festival thinks it's a hoot to have several venues with the same name (and it's only now I figure those associated with Cows were mostly on Cowgate - and I went to the Belly Cow when I wanted the Baby Cow every single time). Within these venues are several stages, which to be fair are signposted. But to get in, you need to queue, and the queue is elsewhere, often a different floor, and not signposted. Eventually I got it, but each venue is different.

By this time I was wet, soaked, it fact the kind of wet that makes saturated actually seem dry. My trousers were acting as drainpipes for a good half hour. The people sitting next to me said, "You've been in the rain?"

No shit.

What do you do to glasses when every piece of cloth on you is beyond saturated - and spitting on them will probably make them drier?

For ten minutes tonight, it was that kind of rain. At least my colleague looked guilty about getting me in.
... that is the post office sub branch.

Please?Sadly the convenient sub branch closed - which is ironic since it was one of the two subbranches that was going to be kept despite the national closures, yanno, the ones we were consulted on. So there's the main one in WH Smiths (how convenient, not) and the one near work. Frankly I should have gone into work except I'm hiding still.

Into a space about the size of a professional snooker table add:

one mother with screaming bairn who has been served and hasn't yet left.

one family who are trying to do something odd with money and all apparemtly have to be there - five or six of them.

then me with a parcel I have to send recorded delivery

how much is it worth?

how much are essays worth? Priceless or worthless.

oh, and the post code I've been given doesn't work

by the time I leave there's a queue of fifteen people inside the post office, none of whom are smart enough to queue out the door or to move to let me out to give them space.

Was that a flurry of snow on the way home?
faustus: (gorilla)
( Jul. 12th, 2008 02:54 pm)
I left my memory stick at home since, well, the talk was on Blackboard and the n drive so a stick looks too much trying to back up the back-up of your back-up.

I figured without the powers that be having decided to update the computer infrastructure overnight and them not being finished in the building where I'm giving my talk. No net access. So no Blackboard. And no n drive.

Thankfully J had her memory stick with the talk on it, and I had at least printed out the script.

I have this sense of if I'd stayed in bed the world would not be any less advanced than it is now.
faustus: (gorilla)
( Jun. 12th, 2008 12:29 pm)
... that torrential rain would silence the dawn chorus and the little beggars would be sheltering at 4am. Not going TWEET TWEET TWEET

You'd be wrong.


faustus: (Default)


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