Complaint letter to Odeon Cinemas (feel free to use as a template)

Because I'm so proud of how it turned out, I've decided I should share with the world the complaint letter I've just sent off to Odeon Cinemas. I do believe I have managed to seamlessly blend the traditional complaint letter with just a touch of comedy gold. If I do say so myself.

Dear Madam or Sir,

On Sunday, the 3rd June, I attended the 17:45 showing of Snow White and the Huntsman at the Camden cinema. Whilst the lobby and snack/concession area all seemed to be of normal temperature, the cinema in which our film was shown (Screen 3) was absolutely freezing.

I attended this film with 3 other friends, and at various points in the movie (once before it started and three times during the film itself), each one of us got up to complain to Odeon employees about the cold temperature and to request that the heat be turned up or the AC be turned down.

Unfortunately, the temperature remained uncomfortably cold throughout the film. It was not until the fourth request (about 10 minutes before the end of the film) that the temperature began to improve slightly and I was able to emerge from the nest of jumpers and scarves under which I had (unsuccessfully) attempted to warm myself.

Immediately after the end of the film, my friends and I complained to the Camden cinema's manager about the lack of response to our requests. Despite 2 other cinema-goers simultaneously confirming the temperature problem in Screen 3, we received no response beyond a compulsory, 'Sorry about that.'

I am sure you can understand how frustrating it is to pay upwards of £10 to see a film, only to have the experience ruined by unpleasant viewing conditions. Kristen Stewart may not be the greatest of actresses, but if I pay good money to see her expressionless face on a giant screen, I expect to be able to do it in relative comfort.

I am sure you can also understand why, a day later, when it came time for me to choose a cinema in which to view Prometheus, I chose Vue in Angel. Their ticket prices may be clinically insane, but at least I didn't turn into a popsicle whilst watching Michael Fassbender and his exquisite jawline robot around in space.

If the Odeon brand expects to retain my custom in these 'interesting' financial times-- when I am extremely careful about how and where I spend my hard-earned money-- I would strongly encourage you to raise not only cinema temperatures, but also the standard of customer service and employee response offered to cinema-goers such as myself.

Yours sincerely,

Ms Jocelyn James

UPDATE: Odeon has responded with an apology, and 4 complimentary tickets for myself and the three friends who were with me on this freezing occasion! Woop woop! Well done, Odeon-- I feel a little Step Up 4: Miami Heat coming on!!

Verdict: Odeon gets an A+ for their response to consumer complaints. I now feel justified in returning my cinema patronage to their company, which is good because Vue charges out the a$$ for tickets!

Fashion Hymn of the Greater Public

or, 'Stop Infringing on Public Decency Laws'

(An ode to a couple of my most favouritest current 'fashions.' Inspired by my mind's eye being scarred forever, and sung to the tune of 'Battle Hymn of the Republic.')

Mine eyes have seen the horror of the sheer tights worn as pants*
The bulges and the panty lines, they had me in a trance
I couldn't tear my eyes away despite my best intents
And now I'm scarred for life

Why oh why do people do this?
Don't they know they're really pants-less?
No one wants to see your bare ass
Please don't insist we do

Mine eyes have seen the horror of the butt-cheeks on parade
Protruding from the hot-pants of the hipsters in AA**
But oh! It's so ironic, right? So that makes it okay!
The hot-pant marches on

Why oh why do people do this?
Don't they know they're really pants-less?
No one wants to see your bare ass
Please don't insist we do
PLEASE DON'T INSIST WE DO.



*The word 'pants' in this context is to be taken in the American sense, that is, trousers.
** 'AA' used here to signifiy American Apparel, not Alcoholics Anonymous.

Why I base my social life around my dog

Since getting my baby girl Florence 3 months ago (Saturday was our 3-month-iversary, yay!), a common refrain from me on nights out has become, "I have to go, I need to get home to my dog." And a common response to this refrain has become an incredulous, "You let your dog dictate your social life?"

The short answer is: Yes. Yes I do.

The long answer is: HELL yes I do.

Seriously though-- are any of the ass-clowns I meet at parties and talk with tipsily for a couple of hours going to snuggle with me that night and be thrilled just to be allowed in my bed? Will any of them wake up the next morning and be so excited to see my face they can barely contain themselves from dancing on my head? No? I didn't think so.

Guess what? My dog does those things. And not only does she do them, she does them consistently and genuinely. And all she asks in return is that I get home in time to take her out to pee so she doesn't have to wet her bed.

So yeah, I base my social life around my dog. And maybe someday, if some human appreciates me half as much as my dog does, he'll be lucky enough for me to base my social life around him. Til then, it's me and Baby Girl, holdin down the fort.

IN WHICH I GET A DOG

There was no sky-writing, or fireworks, (bummer, right?) but as most of you know from the recent announcement/album on Facebook, I HAVE A DOG!!! So of course I am going to write a post about her. Why? Because she's awesome. Why is she awesome?

This, for one:



And this:



And the fact that she has to wear a jumper (sweater, if you're not British) when it's cold, and the fact that sometimes I find her ensconced in a pile of my t-shirts on the second shelf of my wardrobe. And that sometimes both of her ears stand on end in complete defiance of the laws of gravity.

When I first got her, I felt like one of those people that doesn't know they're pregnant, then comes home from the hospital with a baby. I was 80% excited, 20% petrified, and 100% 'holy shit WHAT HAVE I DONE/AM I DOING/WILL I DO??'

A little background: I'm technically not allowed pets in my apartment, but I petitioned my landlord back in November on the off-off-off-chance that, fairy-godmother-like, they might grant my wish and let me have a dog. My petition was a work of beautifully-crafted logical and linguistic art. It involved words like 'regarding' and 'sufficient', bolded paragraph headings with titles like 'Property concerns' and 'Responsible dog ownership,' and citations of the RSPCA breed guidelines. And this picture.

Despite this appeal of epic proportions, I didn't really expect to be allowed a dog. Imagine my surprise when, about a month after I sent my petition, I received an email that said those 11 words every girl longs to hear: 'Your landlord has given permission for you to get a dog.' I CRIED. Honest to God. I was at work and I cried and I didn't even care, that's how happy I was.

Of course, this was about a week and a half before I left for Christmas holiday in the States, so it didn't make much sense to get a dog until the new year... right? But it didn't hurt to start LOOKING for a dog right away because adult Italian Greyhounds are extremely hard to find... right? Right. Except that I happened upon the perfect little 2-year-old baby girl the next day, and she had to be re-homed that very weekend. I had seen one picture of her and was already so in love that I OBVIOUSLY HAD TO HAVE HER. So the next day I hauled my ass out to Sussex (that's right, I went OUTSIDE OF ZONE 2) and brought home little Florence.

I loved her from day 1, but that doesn't mean I wasn't scared shitless. I had gone from hopelessly dreaming of having a dog to ACTUALLY HAVING ONE in a span of less than 3 days. I was on Cloud 9, but also, there was lots of pee on Cloud 9. There was pee on the throw on my couch, pee on the hardwood floor, and pee on my duvet-- 3 different times. There was also a constant outgoing stream of money on Cloud 9; money for a crate, money for food, money for dog insurance, money for those stupidly expensive pee training pads that Florence tended to ignore in favour of my duvet.

I was suppressing a minor panic attack the whole train ride back from Sussex, and not just because I was outside Zone 2. I had expected all of this-- the pee, the money, the parent-like worry-- but suddenly I wondered if I could actually handle it. The first night I had Florence, she refused to go to bed and I spent half the night sleeping fitfully on the couch in the front room with her so she wouldn't feel abandoned. What if she did this EVERY NIGHT? What if I had to spend every night on the couch in the front room and I never got to sleep in my bed again?? What if she NEVER STOPPED PEEING on everything? What if she decided she didn't like me and NEVER WANTED TO CUDDLE??

Luckily for me, I managed to push through the panic wave that crashed over me that first week (thank you, 3 years of therapy), and THANK GOD I did because Florence is the love of my life. She (more or less) stopped peeing on everything, it took her all of 2 days to start sleeping in my bed, and God help you if you try to prevent her from cuddling with me, even when I'm eating. I'm so glad I have her, and when I think about it I really don't know how I survived so long without her-- it's like there was a Florence-shaped hole in my life and I didn't even know it. Pee and all, I can honestly say that getting her is one of the best decisions I've ever made-- right up there with moving to London.

Obligatory post on the London Riots - From Where I Stand

First I will ease everyone's mind by assuring you all that this Not So Quiet American is (so far) safe and well amidst the unrest that is currently plaguing my beloved city. One of the benefits of living in an underground bunker on the edge of a posh neighbourhood at the top of a hill is that most looters really can't be arsed to go so far out of their way to wreak havoc. (Though I am thinking of utilising the situation to convince my landlord to let me get a dog, for protection purposes and all. I have already named said imaginary future dog Valentina Bellissima James, Teeny Billie James for short.)

Anyway, given the preponderance of both news and opinion pieces on the riots, I didn't really intend to add to the pile by writing on it myself. I figured everything worth saying was already being said by someone better at saying it than me. But I was wrong. Because in everything I've come across about the riots, I feel like something very obvious is being ignored: The Middle Ground. Maybe it's because The Middle Ground doesn't make for good headlines, or punchy snap judgements, or nicely drawn lines in the sand that you can stand on either side of. Unfortunately for everyone (myself included) who sometimes wishes things were painted in nice clear shades of black and white, the middle ground is often where the reality of things can be found. And I am pretty convinced that this is the case with the London riots.

Yes, the burning and looting is about chronic economic oppression and community disenfranchisement and inequality and unemployment and slashed benefits. It is about people who can't afford to consume being bombarded on a daily basis with messages of consumerism, overt and subliminal. It is about this tension between societal fantasy and economic reality finally boiling over in a very nasty way.

But guess what? It is also about greed, and opportunism, and violence for the sake of violence. It is about an unfortunate situation being hijacked and used as an opportunity to acquire material goods and vent garden-variety angst. Mob mentality is a well-documented and frightening phenomenon, and I am willing to bet that a good percentage of the people who chose to throw petrol bombs at police cars and torch businesses did so just because they felt like it, and because everyone else was doing it, and because this mob mentality provides invisibility and invincibility. I am willing to bet that a lot of the people in these mobs weren't thinking about social disenfranchisement so much as they were thinking that it might be a good time to anonymously smash up a Curry's and make off with a new flat-screen.

So let's acknowledge both sides. Let's acknolwedge that something is seriously f***ed-up in our society and the time has come to do something about it. Let's acknowledge that slashing public funds and youth programme budgets and health services is maybe not the best way of pulling ourselves out of economic ruin.

But let's also acknowledge that disenfranchisement or not, mob mentality or not, people make choices. Usually, these choices have reasons behind them; there is a socio-psychological explanation for most things that happen and most things that people do. Remembering this allows us to stop ourselves from demonizing the people and the choices they make, because we glimpse the reasoning, however flawed, behind them. But let's not forget that people do, in fact, make choices. The people rioting in the London streets, however disenfranchised or frustrated or ignored, made the choice to smash in the high street windows, set their neighbours' houses on fire, and destroy livelihoods. And the truly sad thing is that the bulk of the effects are being and will be felt not by the upper classes and government officials supposedly being demonstrated against, but by regular Londoners who may be just as marginalised as the rioters. Just because you refrain from demonizing someone doesn't mean you let them off the hook. The people wreaking havoc in the streets of London are not innocent victims of oppression, whose actions are to be defended at all costs; nor are they mindless, soulless perpetrators of violence at which we should feel free to direct or project our own anger and fear over the occurrences of the past few days. They are people: people who made choices to destroy and take things that weren't theirs to destroy and take, for various assorted reasons which humanize but do not vindicate.

So let's acknowledge that the riots of the past few days are indeed symptomatic of a greater societal ill that desperately needs to be addressed; but let's not kid ourselves into thinking that this great societal ill has somehow eroded free will and left rioters with no other choice than to burn and steal.

I don't doubt that this Middle Ground approach is going to attract a fair amaount of ire from both sides of the Line in the Sand. And to said hypothetical ire, I say: Balanced, greyscale viewpoints are often not very popular. They tend to avoid demonization and offer no scapegoat or easy answers. But to be quite frank, I don't think any easy answers exist here; and from where I stand, looking for them is bound to lead to one extreme or the other.

Operation Golddigger

So, my adoring public (read: 2 people) has been clamoring for a new post, and since so much has changed in my life over the past couple of months I feel it's only fair to give the people (read: those 2 aforementioned people) what they want.

You may recall from my last post that I was unemployed, living in the ghetto, and on the verge of full-blown alcoholism. Well I am happy to report that I have got two out of those three things sorted! That's right, I have moved house and am now in gainful employment. Hurray! I'm working (on a temporary but indefinite contract) as a research secretary in the Forensic Psychiatry Unit of Queen Mary University of London/St. Bart's Hospital. It sounds fancy but really, I am just the Unit Bitch. It's fine though, because achieving employment meant I could finally (re)-fulfill one of those all-important Milestones to Adulthood (no, I haven't got a dog-- there will probably be skywriting and a press release when that happens); but I am once more LIVING ALONE. And loving it. A stupid amount. Going back to living alone has done for me what Ecstasy does to drunken ravers: made me want to hug everyone I see, and then drink lots of water. Haha! Kidding about the water part. But anyway, after sacrificing my personal space (and a great deal of my sanity) in order to afford London for the first year and a half that I lived here, moving back into a place of my own has been a dream come true. I found the perfect little studio/one-bedroom in one of my favourite neighbourhoods, and am currently in the process of making it into The Cutest Flat Anyone Has Ever Seen.

I am also in the process of doing all the boring, tedious things associated with moving house, like waiting around all day for a furniture delivery (it never arrived), and registering with my local GP. The latter I did this morning, and in the process discovered a whole new area of London that I am obsessed with. As I walked up the street perpindicular to my flat, I could feel the atmosphere around me getting incrementally more posh with each step, until I started seeing houses that weren't attached to each other, which in my London mind is pretty much equivalent to the height of luxury. Then, I started seeing chandeliers through the windows of front rooms and I heard a small voice in my head whisper "You belong here." As if that weren't enough, halfway up the road I ran into a woman walking her beagle-- BEAGLE-- and I had my Revelation of the Day: I was going to be a golddigger. It really seems to be the way forward in these uncertain economic times, and besides, I like older men. Unfortunately, about a block later I discovered a fly in the ointment: I may be too picky to be a golddigger. There was a gentleman walking on the other side of the street and I thought, "Aha! My first prey!" ...Until I came up alongside him and realised that his look just didn't really do it for me-- his hat was just a bit too red and didn't really go with his three-piece suit. So for now, I guess I'll just ensconce myself in my little one-bedroomed Moroccan-themed nuclear bunker (did I mention I live in a basement flat?) on the edge of Poshville and wait for someone wearing a three-piece suit sans red hat to come along.

Why pink, not unemployment, is my color

Unemployment is NOT a good color on me. Practical reasons aside (needing to pay rent, buy food, and pander to the UK's ridiculous notion of what a visa application should cost *cough* £550 *cough VOMIT*), it turns out that having no structure to my days-- no deadlines, no one relying on me to show up anywhere, no external expectations-- is a death sentence to my personal motivation, personal hygiene, and overall personal well-being. Unfortunately, watching my bank account dip lower and lower doesn't motivate me into getting off my ass, it paralyzes me into a fetal position in my bed, watching TV in the vain hope that producing as little movement as possible will result in needing to eat less, which will result in needing to buy less food, which will result in less damage to my sad, sad bank account. Even less fortunately, this bad logic isn't entirely unfounded, seeing as how faffing about in my pajamas all day whilst watching unlimited free TV online does in fact save on tube/bus fare and avoids shopping temptations.

This positive reinforcement (spending less money) of a very negative idea (becoming a house-bound, occasionally-showering, alcoholic sloth) does not help me in kicking my all-too-quickly-formed bad habits (drinking wine at 3 pm after sleeping til noon and watching 7 episodes of Cougar Town). I seem to lack the self-motivation to get out of this unflattering rut because even though I want to not be the girl that sleeps til noon, eats crisps for breakfast, and watches bad TV for 9 out of the 10 hours she's up, I somehow wake up every morning and am still her. So unfair. I can't seem to make myself change, so I grasp onto any shred of outside assistance that might break the pajama-sleep-wine cycle. I find myself actually agreeing to meeting with friends before 11 am (GASP) simply because I know it will at least force me to shower and slap some makeup on my despondent face. I schedule unhelpful meetings with recruitment consultants because hey-- at least they'll judge me if i show up inebriated at 1 pm, thus forcing me to have a normal lunch of a sandwich and juice. If I can't make myself do what's good for me, maybe someone else can. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go finish watching Piranha 3D and drinking my Kronenbourg 1664.