I have spent the last week trying to get two prescriptions filled. Prescriptions I need so I can function, at least semi-normally, on a day-to-day basis. New prescriptions, because my current medications aren’t really doing an adequate job of managing my pain. Call me crazy, but having 10 migraines per month (sometimes more, and sometimes for days on end) isn’t what I’d call effective pain management. My neurologist agrees, so he decided we should try some new medication.
But my insurance doesn’t want to cover these new prescriptions. And do you want to know how much they cost without insurance? $500, for one month’s supply. So I have spent the last week ferrying myself back and forth to the pharmacy, calling my insurance, and trying to get hold of my doctor in hopes that he can convince the insurance the medications are a necessity. I have done this on top of working two jobs, and suffering from two separate migraines in that week’s timeframe.
I am sharing this not because I want pity, or even commiseration; I’m sharing because I want to illustrate how difficult it is for people like me— people who work, but are still barely above the poverty line; people who suffer from chronic, debilitating health problems; people who are trying damn hard but still barely keeping their heads above water, either health-wise, finance-wise, or both— to access the care we need. It’s this hard in our *current* system; a system that, in theory, has concessions, programs, and safety nets for people like me.
In the proposed Republican healthcare plan, those programs would be decimated. People like me would be left holding the bill for hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars worth of medical services and prescription costs every month; a bill we have no hope of paying. Our current healthcare system is not perfect; the last week of my life can attest to that. But the proposed plan would not fix any of the problems that plague that system; if anything, it would make them worse.
It’s easy to ignore the issues this new plan would create if you’re not one of the people negatively affected by it. It’s easy to generalize and rationalize and convince yourself that the people who would suffer under this new plan somehow don’t deserve care. So I’m asking you NOT to generalize; I’m asking you to make it personal. The next time you hear or read about the bill and are tempted to think of the people affected as just an anonymous ‘other,’ I would ask you to think of me instead. Do I matter? Do I deserve to have access to the specialists and medications I need to lead a productive, fulfilling life? If you answered yes, then you need to think twice about supporting the healthcare bill in its current form. And if you answered no, then I guess I would ask you-- why? What is it about me as a person, or my situation, that makes me less deserving of care—of quality of life—than anyone else? What makes any one person more deserving of care than another?
There is no doubt that our system is broken. I could write a dozen posts on the myriad of things wrong, and give examples of how other countries are doing it better. But suffice it to say: the proposed health plan, far from fixing anything, would absolutely destroy the few pieces in place that are actually working. We can do better.
Wednesday, 28 June 2017
Saturday, 4 February 2017
Believe Us, Part 2
I have been so overwhelmed—-in a good way—-by the response to my last, very personal, post. So many people—-men, women, close friends and people I hadn’t seen in ages—-voiced their support, compassion, and solidarity that I know sharing my story was the right thing to do. I want to thank each and every person who responded, whether in a comment or a direct message, for their kind words and love. It has made me a better person and bolstered my belief that Love Wins.
I didn’t know just how much I would need to lean on that belief until last night, when I decided that I wanted to discuss my experiences with the person who made the rape comment that triggered all this in the first place. Things hadn’t felt right between us all week, and even though I was hurt and angry, I wanted to open up a dialogue that might allow him to see things from my perspective. I approached him and asked if we could talk, because I knew things had been weird between us since last weekend’s incident. His response shocked me: “Things aren’t weird; I’m just ignoring you. And not talking to you has made this the best week so far, because I haven’t had to listen to you whining about how terrible men are. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the truth. I don’t want to talk to you.”
I wish I could say that the conversation recovered, and we went on to have a meaningful dialogue around personal trauma and compassion; but that’s not how it went. What did happen was that I tried to maintain my composure while dying inside, and get the conversation back on track, while he barreled on, completely ignoring/discounting my experiences, accusing me of “playing the woman card,” and maintaining that not talking to me had made his life so much better.
Needless to say, I left in tears. Again.
My emotions since then have floundered between blind rage, total despair, profound disappointment, and deep hurt. I’ll be honest and say I am really struggling not to add this man to the list of other men (namely, the two mentioned in the previous post) who I trusted to respect and support me, and instead abused my trust and left me reeling. I am struggling not to let this embitter me. I am clinging to the fact that so many other people responded so supportively when I told them my story. I am trying not to let one hateful person deter me from saying what needs to be said, or convince me that my experience is worthless, or make me believe that because I notice injustices and point them out, I am just an angry bitch who hates all men.
But of course I’m angry. I’m angry at the person who triggered all this for belittling my story and saying such hurtful things; and I’m angry in general at the fact that we live in a world where 1 in 4 women experience sexual assault at some point in their lives, and where I have to pay for a taxi home at night instead of walking because I might get followed (again), and where even though I cover my face with a scarf when I cycle to work, I still get catcalled on a regular basis.
We should all be angry. Anger doesn’t mean you hate everyone and everything; it means you recognize that something is wrong with the way things are and you want better—-for yourself, for others, for your children. And don’t we all want that? Don’t we all want to live in a world where we and our children after us—-daughters and sons—-can feel safe, no matter where we choose to walk or how we choose to dress or what we choose to drink? So get angry with me. And let’s turn that anger into something beautiful.
I didn’t know just how much I would need to lean on that belief until last night, when I decided that I wanted to discuss my experiences with the person who made the rape comment that triggered all this in the first place. Things hadn’t felt right between us all week, and even though I was hurt and angry, I wanted to open up a dialogue that might allow him to see things from my perspective. I approached him and asked if we could talk, because I knew things had been weird between us since last weekend’s incident. His response shocked me: “Things aren’t weird; I’m just ignoring you. And not talking to you has made this the best week so far, because I haven’t had to listen to you whining about how terrible men are. I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the truth. I don’t want to talk to you.”
I wish I could say that the conversation recovered, and we went on to have a meaningful dialogue around personal trauma and compassion; but that’s not how it went. What did happen was that I tried to maintain my composure while dying inside, and get the conversation back on track, while he barreled on, completely ignoring/discounting my experiences, accusing me of “playing the woman card,” and maintaining that not talking to me had made his life so much better.
Needless to say, I left in tears. Again.
My emotions since then have floundered between blind rage, total despair, profound disappointment, and deep hurt. I’ll be honest and say I am really struggling not to add this man to the list of other men (namely, the two mentioned in the previous post) who I trusted to respect and support me, and instead abused my trust and left me reeling. I am struggling not to let this embitter me. I am clinging to the fact that so many other people responded so supportively when I told them my story. I am trying not to let one hateful person deter me from saying what needs to be said, or convince me that my experience is worthless, or make me believe that because I notice injustices and point them out, I am just an angry bitch who hates all men.
But of course I’m angry. I’m angry at the person who triggered all this for belittling my story and saying such hurtful things; and I’m angry in general at the fact that we live in a world where 1 in 4 women experience sexual assault at some point in their lives, and where I have to pay for a taxi home at night instead of walking because I might get followed (again), and where even though I cover my face with a scarf when I cycle to work, I still get catcalled on a regular basis.
We should all be angry. Anger doesn’t mean you hate everyone and everything; it means you recognize that something is wrong with the way things are and you want better—-for yourself, for others, for your children. And don’t we all want that? Don’t we all want to live in a world where we and our children after us—-daughters and sons—-can feel safe, no matter where we choose to walk or how we choose to dress or what we choose to drink? So get angry with me. And let’s turn that anger into something beautiful.
Sunday, 29 January 2017
Believe Us
Tonight was hard for me.
I was out with some friends and one of them (a man) joked that having mustard put on his food “was like getting raped in the mouth.”
I didn’t take that well. I pointed out that having a condiment you disliked put on your food and being raped were not comparable. I said that if you hadn’t been raped, you couldn’t joke about it (and those who have been probably don’t want to joke about it). He disagreed and didn’t back down. I fled to the bathroom in tears.
I found myself wondering why I was so upset. “Jocelyn,” I asked myself, “what about what was just said is making you retreat to the corridor of a bar, in tears?” And if I’m being honest, it was because someone tried to do exactly that: “rape me in the mouth,” several years ago, and I had never acknowledged it. Without getting graphic, but being factual and anatomical, someone—-a person I trusted—-decided that since I was drunk, I must want his penis in my mouth. So he tried to put it there. I was drunk, but I did not in fact want his penis in my mouth, or anywhere near me. So I stubbornly kept my mouth shut. He kept trying; I kept resisting. And eventually he retreated home, unsatisfied. I later found out that he had jokingly complained to his friends afterwards, “I kept trying to put it in, but she wouldn’t open her mouth!!”
I wish that was the only time someone tried to do something to me I didn’t want done. But a year or so later, someone decided that either I had had enough alcohol, or they had put enough drugs in my alcohol (I’ll never know which, because both hospitals and police refused to test me without ‘proof of that a crime had been committed’), that they could take me home. Not bring me home; that would imply desire. But physically take me from the restaurant we were at, in a taxi, to their apartment, where I did not want to go, simply because I could not physically resist. I don’t remember going to their apartment; I don’t know how I got there. The only memory that persists, through the drugged/alcohol haze, and through the haze of time, is a vague sense memory of me shoving him away and running, then wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city, alone, disoriented, at 4 in the morning. I was ‘lucky’; I got away, physically unharmed.
I don’t like the term victim. I try to avoid it when talking about the clients and populations I strive to serve. I certainly don’t use it with myself. I like the term survivor. But I’ve never used it with myself because to me, survivor implies that you’ve gotten through some sort of violence, some sort of very real physical threat to your personhood; and I’ve never felt I could claim that.
So I’ve never known what to term myself. And tonight, I realized I don’t need to categorize. What happened to me traumatized me. That much is clear from my visceral emotional reaction to my friend’s flippant statement. I don’t need to categorize myself into victim, or survivor, or any other label. And neither does anyone else. What happened to us happened. It affected us the way it affected us. We persist and we break down and we heal. Labels don’t matter. Stories matter. People matter. What happened to me—-what happens to anyone—-doesn’t define me. But it is a part of my story, and it needs to be told. And people need to be willing to listen; and not just listen, but believe. This is true for everyone, but especially men. When we tell you that it’s not okay to compare a disliked condiment to mouth rape, believe us. When we tell you it isn’t funny to joke about drugging someone’s drink, listen to us. And if you say ‘not all men’ but then do nothing when you hear or see others doing these things, start standing up for us.
I was out with some friends and one of them (a man) joked that having mustard put on his food “was like getting raped in the mouth.”
I didn’t take that well. I pointed out that having a condiment you disliked put on your food and being raped were not comparable. I said that if you hadn’t been raped, you couldn’t joke about it (and those who have been probably don’t want to joke about it). He disagreed and didn’t back down. I fled to the bathroom in tears.
I found myself wondering why I was so upset. “Jocelyn,” I asked myself, “what about what was just said is making you retreat to the corridor of a bar, in tears?” And if I’m being honest, it was because someone tried to do exactly that: “rape me in the mouth,” several years ago, and I had never acknowledged it. Without getting graphic, but being factual and anatomical, someone—-a person I trusted—-decided that since I was drunk, I must want his penis in my mouth. So he tried to put it there. I was drunk, but I did not in fact want his penis in my mouth, or anywhere near me. So I stubbornly kept my mouth shut. He kept trying; I kept resisting. And eventually he retreated home, unsatisfied. I later found out that he had jokingly complained to his friends afterwards, “I kept trying to put it in, but she wouldn’t open her mouth!!”
I wish that was the only time someone tried to do something to me I didn’t want done. But a year or so later, someone decided that either I had had enough alcohol, or they had put enough drugs in my alcohol (I’ll never know which, because both hospitals and police refused to test me without ‘proof of that a crime had been committed’), that they could take me home. Not bring me home; that would imply desire. But physically take me from the restaurant we were at, in a taxi, to their apartment, where I did not want to go, simply because I could not physically resist. I don’t remember going to their apartment; I don’t know how I got there. The only memory that persists, through the drugged/alcohol haze, and through the haze of time, is a vague sense memory of me shoving him away and running, then wandering the streets of an unfamiliar city, alone, disoriented, at 4 in the morning. I was ‘lucky’; I got away, physically unharmed.
I don’t like the term victim. I try to avoid it when talking about the clients and populations I strive to serve. I certainly don’t use it with myself. I like the term survivor. But I’ve never used it with myself because to me, survivor implies that you’ve gotten through some sort of violence, some sort of very real physical threat to your personhood; and I’ve never felt I could claim that.
So I’ve never known what to term myself. And tonight, I realized I don’t need to categorize. What happened to me traumatized me. That much is clear from my visceral emotional reaction to my friend’s flippant statement. I don’t need to categorize myself into victim, or survivor, or any other label. And neither does anyone else. What happened to us happened. It affected us the way it affected us. We persist and we break down and we heal. Labels don’t matter. Stories matter. People matter. What happened to me—-what happens to anyone—-doesn’t define me. But it is a part of my story, and it needs to be told. And people need to be willing to listen; and not just listen, but believe. This is true for everyone, but especially men. When we tell you that it’s not okay to compare a disliked condiment to mouth rape, believe us. When we tell you it isn’t funny to joke about drugging someone’s drink, listen to us. And if you say ‘not all men’ but then do nothing when you hear or see others doing these things, start standing up for us.
Sunday, 22 January 2017
Women's March Momentum
I participated in one of the many Women's Marches that took place yesterday around the world, and I am so glad I did. I don't like crowds.; it was crowded. I don't like rain; it was raining. I don't like attending events alone; I couldn't find the friend I was supposed to meet up with and ended up marching by myself (alone, with 40,000 other people).
It's safe to say I was way out of my comfort zone. But I'm so glad I was there. My Lyft driver dropped me off a few blocks away because traffic was at a standstill; I didn't know exactly where I was going, but all I had to do was follow the herds of people heading in the same general direction. And when I rounded a corner and saw thousands upon thousands of people-- women, men, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, gay, straight, young, old-- gathered to support the same ideals, I got a little choked up.
And what ideals were we supporting? Well, I think every person will have a slightly different answer. But at their core, those answers will be the same. Because everyone present was there to support the idea that every human has the same rights, and those rights are precious and must be protected.
I marched because 1 in 4 women are sexually assaulted at some point in their life, and that is unacceptable. What is even more unacceptable is that someone who has perpetrated sexual assault now leads our country. I marched for myself and for every other person who relives their trauma every time they see or read about the man who is now in charge of the US.
I marched because healthcare is a human right, not a privilege. How much money you have in your bank account should not affect whether or not you are able to go to the doctor, or fill your prescriptions, or receive preventive or lifesaving treatment.
I marched because I refuse to accept that this new administration is going to define the direction our country takes. I marched because women are half the population, and we have a voice, and for me, the march was the first line in what I hope will be a long story of using that voice.
It's safe to say I was way out of my comfort zone. But I'm so glad I was there. My Lyft driver dropped me off a few blocks away because traffic was at a standstill; I didn't know exactly where I was going, but all I had to do was follow the herds of people heading in the same general direction. And when I rounded a corner and saw thousands upon thousands of people-- women, men, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, gay, straight, young, old-- gathered to support the same ideals, I got a little choked up.
And what ideals were we supporting? Well, I think every person will have a slightly different answer. But at their core, those answers will be the same. Because everyone present was there to support the idea that every human has the same rights, and those rights are precious and must be protected.
I marched because 1 in 4 women are sexually assaulted at some point in their life, and that is unacceptable. What is even more unacceptable is that someone who has perpetrated sexual assault now leads our country. I marched for myself and for every other person who relives their trauma every time they see or read about the man who is now in charge of the US.
I marched because healthcare is a human right, not a privilege. How much money you have in your bank account should not affect whether or not you are able to go to the doctor, or fill your prescriptions, or receive preventive or lifesaving treatment.
I marched because I refuse to accept that this new administration is going to define the direction our country takes. I marched because women are half the population, and we have a voice, and for me, the march was the first line in what I hope will be a long story of using that voice.
Bringing Bloggy Back
I've done some thinking in the past 48 hours (I mean, I've done some thinking other times, too; but the past 48 hours have been more focused), and I've decided it's time for me to bring back the blog. The blog started as a way for me to express my thoughts and experiences as an American living in the UK; sadly, I'm no longer in the UK (one day I'll be back!!) and the blog is taking a new direction. Here is where I'll be posting thoughts on being a liberal, feminist woman under a Trump administration, and hopefully also posting about positive actions that we can take to ensure that Love Wins. I know that a lot of us are scared, discouraged, and angry. I am. So I'm going to be channeling my anger into words and actions that I hope will help bring about safety and unity in a scary world. I hope you'll join me!
I thought about changing the name of the blog-- the title 'The Not-So-Quiet American' was meant to bring attention to my foreign-ness in the UK. But I think it's still relevant. America doesn't belong to Trump, or to his supporters who preach hate and ignorance. I am American. And I will not keep quiet.
I thought about changing the name of the blog-- the title 'The Not-So-Quiet American' was meant to bring attention to my foreign-ness in the UK. But I think it's still relevant. America doesn't belong to Trump, or to his supporters who preach hate and ignorance. I am American. And I will not keep quiet.
Wednesday, 1 August 2012
2012 Opening Cere-moan-y
Or, Why I feel Completely and Totally Justified in Dreading/Boycotting the London 2012 Olympics.
Before I go into my (completely justified, research-backed) good old-fashioned bitch-and-moan against the games, I'd like to make one thing clear: I love my city, and I love a good party. I love having excuses to party in my city. Which is why I love my birthday, and Christmas, and New Year's, and Halloween, and even flipping Guy Fawkes night, even though I don't really know what it's celebrating (something about Parliament not getting blown up?)... but you'll notice, all these parties have something in common-- they don't send the entire nation into a debt spiral from which only the rich and powerful can escape unscathed while the rest of us attempt to shove ourselves onto hopelessly overcrowded tube cars with hoards of sweaty tourists who don't know that you're supposed to STAND ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE BLOOMIN ESCALATOR so the commuters who are running for the next train like their job depended on it (because it probably does) can WALK ON THE LEFT!!
I realise that my last 2 blog posts have also been rants of a sort (though, might I point out, also completely justified), and I fear that you, my reader(s??), might think all I do all the time always is rant. I do not. (Though don't get me started on booty shorts.) There are lots of things I *don't* want to rant about because they are functioning perfectly well and are not in need of a good verbal slap upside the head. Maybe my next post will be all about how flipping cute my dog is just to prove that there's more to me than bitching. But for now, the Olympics must be addressed. Because when the hoards arrive and I'm spending my morning commute squashed into some confused Games-goer's sweaty armpit, they're going to be glad I got my ranting out of the way now.
Let's start with the 'Get Ahead of the Games' posters - brought to you by the 'Mayor of London' (as if he has to take public transit anywhere, ever). For you non-Londoners, these posters are stationed handily throughout the city - on bus shelters, on buses, in Tube stations, in Tube cars, basically you can't shake a fucking stick without hitting one - and contain helpful hints to avoid the crushing influx of tourists London is about to experience. My personal favourite encourages commuters to get off a few stops early and walk the rest of the way to work. What a splendid idea! I'll just turn my 45-minute commute into a 2-hour bus-train-stroll combi! Are you freaking kidding me? Make the tourists get off a few stops early and walk-- what better way to see more of the city than schlepping from Heathrow to Highgate on foot??
Now moving on to the Brand Police - basically an army of lawyers and copyright experts (is that a thing?) who will be hitting the streets to make sure that unauthorised businesses (a.k.a., everyone except McDonalds and Coca Cola) aren't utilising any of the 'official' Olympic words. You know, branded words. Words like 'silver,' 'gold,' 'bronze,' 'summer,' '2012,' etc. These same Brand Enforcers have also banned the sale of chips (fries) within the Olympic park by any restaurant except McDonalds. Nothing says 'authentic British chips' like the fries served by a US-based fast-food corporation!
But all that pales in comparison to my personal favourite dick-move made by Olympics officials: Calling British soldiers up from leave to help with policing the games because the security company hired to do the job CAN'T DO THE JOB. I've said it before and I'll say it again: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME.
Not to mention that I happened upon a comment about how the Olympics 2012 logo looks like Lisa Simpson giving head, and now I can't unsee it.
I asked Florence how she felt about all this, and all she had to say was:
Well-put, Florence. I think that pretty much sums it all up.
UPDATE: So I must say, my daily commute during the Olympics has not been the hideous hellhole of an experience I was afraid it was going to be. It could be because I don't commute during rush hour, or it could be because I'm not anywhere near any of the Olympic sites, or it could just be because God has seen fit to smile upon me and grant me this blessing, but if anything, the Tube has actually been *emptier* on my way in to work the last few mornings! (Honestly I think it's just because everyone in London with a bit of sense in their head and some annual leave still left to take has f***ed off to other countries.) But whatever the reason (his heart or his shoes, the Grinch stood there on Christmas, hating the Whos.... no?), I've managed to get a seat every single day (without having to shove aside any old ladies or pregnant women). WOOP. In regards to my other Olympic complaints, I really have nothing to add except this.
Before I go into my (completely justified, research-backed) good old-fashioned bitch-and-moan against the games, I'd like to make one thing clear: I love my city, and I love a good party. I love having excuses to party in my city. Which is why I love my birthday, and Christmas, and New Year's, and Halloween, and even flipping Guy Fawkes night, even though I don't really know what it's celebrating (something about Parliament not getting blown up?)... but you'll notice, all these parties have something in common-- they don't send the entire nation into a debt spiral from which only the rich and powerful can escape unscathed while the rest of us attempt to shove ourselves onto hopelessly overcrowded tube cars with hoards of sweaty tourists who don't know that you're supposed to STAND ON THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE BLOOMIN ESCALATOR so the commuters who are running for the next train like their job depended on it (because it probably does) can WALK ON THE LEFT!!
I realise that my last 2 blog posts have also been rants of a sort (though, might I point out, also completely justified), and I fear that you, my reader(s??), might think all I do all the time always is rant. I do not. (Though don't get me started on booty shorts.) There are lots of things I *don't* want to rant about because they are functioning perfectly well and are not in need of a good verbal slap upside the head. Maybe my next post will be all about how flipping cute my dog is just to prove that there's more to me than bitching. But for now, the Olympics must be addressed. Because when the hoards arrive and I'm spending my morning commute squashed into some confused Games-goer's sweaty armpit, they're going to be glad I got my ranting out of the way now.
Let's start with the 'Get Ahead of the Games' posters - brought to you by the 'Mayor of London' (as if he has to take public transit anywhere, ever). For you non-Londoners, these posters are stationed handily throughout the city - on bus shelters, on buses, in Tube stations, in Tube cars, basically you can't shake a fucking stick without hitting one - and contain helpful hints to avoid the crushing influx of tourists London is about to experience. My personal favourite encourages commuters to get off a few stops early and walk the rest of the way to work. What a splendid idea! I'll just turn my 45-minute commute into a 2-hour bus-train-stroll combi! Are you freaking kidding me? Make the tourists get off a few stops early and walk-- what better way to see more of the city than schlepping from Heathrow to Highgate on foot??
Now moving on to the Brand Police - basically an army of lawyers and copyright experts (is that a thing?) who will be hitting the streets to make sure that unauthorised businesses (a.k.a., everyone except McDonalds and Coca Cola) aren't utilising any of the 'official' Olympic words. You know, branded words. Words like 'silver,' 'gold,' 'bronze,' 'summer,' '2012,' etc. These same Brand Enforcers have also banned the sale of chips (fries) within the Olympic park by any restaurant except McDonalds. Nothing says 'authentic British chips' like the fries served by a US-based fast-food corporation!
But all that pales in comparison to my personal favourite dick-move made by Olympics officials: Calling British soldiers up from leave to help with policing the games because the security company hired to do the job CAN'T DO THE JOB. I've said it before and I'll say it again: ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME.
Not to mention that I happened upon a comment about how the Olympics 2012 logo looks like Lisa Simpson giving head, and now I can't unsee it.
I asked Florence how she felt about all this, and all she had to say was:
Well-put, Florence. I think that pretty much sums it all up.
UPDATE: So I must say, my daily commute during the Olympics has not been the hideous hellhole of an experience I was afraid it was going to be. It could be because I don't commute during rush hour, or it could be because I'm not anywhere near any of the Olympic sites, or it could just be because God has seen fit to smile upon me and grant me this blessing, but if anything, the Tube has actually been *emptier* on my way in to work the last few mornings! (Honestly I think it's just because everyone in London with a bit of sense in their head and some annual leave still left to take has f***ed off to other countries.) But whatever the reason (his heart or his shoes, the Grinch stood there on Christmas, hating the Whos.... no?), I've managed to get a seat every single day (without having to shove aside any old ladies or pregnant women). WOOP. In regards to my other Olympic complaints, I really have nothing to add except this.
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Complaint letter to Virgin Mobile
After the rousing success of my last complaint letter (I got free cinema tickets for me and my friends!), I decided to continue the Consumers Crusade with this little gem, sent off today to Virgin Mobile:
Dear Madam or Sir,
I am writing in relation to my mobile phone bill for the month of July, for which my bank account was debited in the amount of £10.13. However, my 'pay monthly' tariff, for which I signed up in June, is only £7. Upon closer inspection of my bill, I discovered that the extra charge of £3.13 was for a phone call made to the number 08454541111. Imagine my surprise when I discovered this number is none other than VIRGIN MEDIA CUSTOMER CARE! I had rung the Customer Care line from my (Virgin) mobile phone on the 26th of June in relation to an outage of my (Virgin) broadband service. I distinctly recall being asked by the customer care representative to please hold, at which I expressed concern that my mobile would be charged for any extra minutes, and was assured that such calls were free and I would be charged nothing-- not even mobile minutes from my monthly allowance-- for time I spent on the phone with Customer Care. Subsequently finding a charge for £3.13 on my bill several weeks after my internet outage was like icing on the cake, if the cake was made of dirt and the icing was piles of poo.
I find it mildly amusing, utterly appalling, and-- I won't lie-- a little bit genius (so many simultaneous feelings!) that Virgin Media would charge customers for ringing up to complain about Virgin Media services. I find it even MORE appalling that Virgin Media representatives would blatantly lie (or perhaps just be incredibly misinformed) about these charges when directly asked about them.
While I am somewhat impressed by the cunning business model being employed in this instance by Virgin Media (what better way to avoid complaints than by charging customers to complain?!), I'm sure you can understand why my frustration outweighs my admiration. I'm sure you can also understand why I would hope to be reimbursed for the overcharge made to my account, and why I would hope that in future, Virgin reconsiders their policy of charging for Customer Care calls. My contract with Virgin Mobile is no-obligation month-to-month and I've still got a T-Mobile SIM card waiting in the wings, so switching back would be a piece of (non-muddy/poopy) cake!
Yours sincerely,
Jocelyn James
UPDATE: Virgin has now responded (finally) to apologise for the confusion and clarify that there is no charge for calling Customer Care if you dial a specific number (150) from your Virgin mobile. They have also credited my account the £3.12 that was over-charged. Woop!
Verdict: Virgin Media gets a B for customer complaint response. They took their sweet time about getting back to me, and they certainly didn't go over-the-top to keep my patronage (like, maybe a month's free service or something? i <3 free stuff), but they did refund the overcharge and clarify their policy, so that's helpful. It's nice to know I won't have to switch back to T-Mobile PAYG! (YET!) :P
Dear Madam or Sir,
I am writing in relation to my mobile phone bill for the month of July, for which my bank account was debited in the amount of £10.13. However, my 'pay monthly' tariff, for which I signed up in June, is only £7. Upon closer inspection of my bill, I discovered that the extra charge of £3.13 was for a phone call made to the number 08454541111. Imagine my surprise when I discovered this number is none other than VIRGIN MEDIA CUSTOMER CARE! I had rung the Customer Care line from my (Virgin) mobile phone on the 26th of June in relation to an outage of my (Virgin) broadband service. I distinctly recall being asked by the customer care representative to please hold, at which I expressed concern that my mobile would be charged for any extra minutes, and was assured that such calls were free and I would be charged nothing-- not even mobile minutes from my monthly allowance-- for time I spent on the phone with Customer Care. Subsequently finding a charge for £3.13 on my bill several weeks after my internet outage was like icing on the cake, if the cake was made of dirt and the icing was piles of poo.
I find it mildly amusing, utterly appalling, and-- I won't lie-- a little bit genius (so many simultaneous feelings!) that Virgin Media would charge customers for ringing up to complain about Virgin Media services. I find it even MORE appalling that Virgin Media representatives would blatantly lie (or perhaps just be incredibly misinformed) about these charges when directly asked about them.
While I am somewhat impressed by the cunning business model being employed in this instance by Virgin Media (what better way to avoid complaints than by charging customers to complain?!), I'm sure you can understand why my frustration outweighs my admiration. I'm sure you can also understand why I would hope to be reimbursed for the overcharge made to my account, and why I would hope that in future, Virgin reconsiders their policy of charging for Customer Care calls. My contract with Virgin Mobile is no-obligation month-to-month and I've still got a T-Mobile SIM card waiting in the wings, so switching back would be a piece of (non-muddy/poopy) cake!
Yours sincerely,
Jocelyn James
UPDATE: Virgin has now responded (finally) to apologise for the confusion and clarify that there is no charge for calling Customer Care if you dial a specific number (150) from your Virgin mobile. They have also credited my account the £3.12 that was over-charged. Woop!
Verdict: Virgin Media gets a B for customer complaint response. They took their sweet time about getting back to me, and they certainly didn't go over-the-top to keep my patronage (like, maybe a month's free service or something? i <3 free stuff), but they did refund the overcharge and clarify their policy, so that's helpful. It's nice to know I won't have to switch back to T-Mobile PAYG! (YET!) :P
Friday, 8 June 2012
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!
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!
Thursday, 7 June 2012
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.
(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.
Sunday, 18 March 2012
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.
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.
Friday, 17 February 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 10 August 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, 31 March 2011
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.
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.
Monday, 17 January 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Sometimes you leave your gloves on the Night Bus...
...and end up crying about it for twenty minutes straight. And sometimes, about 7 minutes in, you realize you're not actually crying about your gloves. Sure, it's sad that you lost them-- after all they were your favorites, and they were pink, and they kept your hands nice and toasty in the damp London winter-- but it turns out you're not ACTUALLY expending all your emotional energy on weeping for a pair of hand accessories. It turns out the losing of the gloves was just what you needed to unleash that pent-up wave of sad you'd been storing since you found out your grandfather had a heart attack and your little doggie nephew passed away.
This is what happens to me fairly often-- traumatic things will occur in my life, I'll seemingly take them in stride, and then something that is for all intents and purposes unfortunate but inconsequential will happen and the DAM WILL BURST. It's happened so many times now that I almost expect it. Okay I don't *almost* expect it, I *do* expect it; in fact, I can very nearly predict when one of these dam bursts will happen-- it's just that I can't ever exactly predict *what* will make the dam burst. This time around I knew I was due for one, but I could've sworn it was going to be something dumb and boy-related that set it off; instead, it was dumb and accessory-related. Who knew? What I do know is that these dam bursts, while perhaps apparently insane, are not in fact unhealthy. They are what my emotional self needs in order to experience catharsis, deal with it, and then move (slowly) on. I'm not saying that after one of these expected yet unexpected floods I am totally and completely healed; there are usually still little cracks in my soul, and sometimes the cracks scar over into permanent marks. But through these natural disasters I somehow expel the biggest essence of the tragedy that my soul was experiencing, and when I come to the other side I am more able to cope with the aftermath. And then I pick myself up and go to Primark and buy some new gloves.
This is what happens to me fairly often-- traumatic things will occur in my life, I'll seemingly take them in stride, and then something that is for all intents and purposes unfortunate but inconsequential will happen and the DAM WILL BURST. It's happened so many times now that I almost expect it. Okay I don't *almost* expect it, I *do* expect it; in fact, I can very nearly predict when one of these dam bursts will happen-- it's just that I can't ever exactly predict *what* will make the dam burst. This time around I knew I was due for one, but I could've sworn it was going to be something dumb and boy-related that set it off; instead, it was dumb and accessory-related. Who knew? What I do know is that these dam bursts, while perhaps apparently insane, are not in fact unhealthy. They are what my emotional self needs in order to experience catharsis, deal with it, and then move (slowly) on. I'm not saying that after one of these expected yet unexpected floods I am totally and completely healed; there are usually still little cracks in my soul, and sometimes the cracks scar over into permanent marks. But through these natural disasters I somehow expel the biggest essence of the tragedy that my soul was experiencing, and when I come to the other side I am more able to cope with the aftermath. And then I pick myself up and go to Primark and buy some new gloves.
Saturday, 21 August 2010
My dissertation may be the final nail in my coffin of madness...
Things I have consumed in the last 24 hours:
Leftover Chinese takeaway (for breakfast)
Banana smoothie
Sea Salted popcorn (for lunch)
2 mini doughnuts
Half a marzipan chocolate bar
1 packet crisps
Half a can of chickpeas
1 miniature bottle red wine
That's right ladies and gentlemen, I am in the middle of yet another essay-writing/procrastination-crisis. Only this one is unlike any of the others before it, for this one is an epic, 15,000-word full-on Dissertation Crisis. If I thought being cooped up in my room for 3 straight days on a 6000-word law essay bender was bad, I found myself completely unprepared for the hostage situation that is my dissertation. I (and many of my coursemates) have found myself teetering on the brink of insanity for weeks now as I waffle between wanting to get my thesis done SO BAD that I just word-vomit whatever comes into my mind, and being so completely overwhelmed that I stare at a blank Word document for hours on end in the middle of the Institute of Advanced Legal Studies library while other, more competent, students around me type away breezily on their laptops. (Dear More Competent Students: I hate you.)
This delusion slash denial manifests itself in odd ways, sometimes popping up in the form of maniacal procrastinatory shopping sprees (WHOOPS), and other times making itself known through spurious and superfluous (KA-CHINGGGG, two 50-cent words in one sentence!) email exchanges like the one below, between myself and a (freaking hilarious) coursemate:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Jocelyn James [in response to a job posting sent out for which I did not qualify]
Sent: Tue 17/08/2010 13:49
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:
i like that you have to be a national of a commonwealth country... how rude... they are just angry because america threw off the shackles of commonwealth-osity... xxxxxxxxxxxxx
ps i miss you
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Tue 8/17/2010 2:03 PM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:
they are! I have the EXACT conversation with my boss/the queen everyday. I tell them that its about time they got over it, and that its a stoopid redundant term anyway... and thats why i probably ain't getting my contract extended. Cool.
Hows it going anyway love?
I'm at work today and have somehow managed not to do a single stitch of work! i'm sort of proud..?!
I got my dissertation bound last week, it went down a storm in the academic circles field so i'm just in talks with Penguin publishing house who want to turn it into a collection of short stories on hate speech.
p(loppy)s(hit) - i miss you tooooooooo!!!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Jocelyn James
Sent: Wed 18/08/2010 00:51
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:
so glad to hear you've got your dissertation done and dusted. when i heard you hadn't finished it by last month i was beginning to panic on your behalf.
i of course had mine done before the course even started. as a matter of fact, i came out of the womb with a tiny dissertation in my hand, and i've just been expounding upon it in the intervening years. i'm just waiting to hand it in til they invent the exact proper paper on which to print it... i'm thinking something eco-friendly, pink, and lightly scented, possibly with small sustainably-mined gold flecks in. plans are in the works by 2 leading paper companies and i'm just waiting to see which finished product i prefer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Wed 8/18/2010 10:09 AM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:
I was up till 3 in the morn watching shows about fat brides and now at work... meant to be writing stuff about human rights in zambia but all i can see is very very very large women in wedding dresses weeping. and it just doesn't feel right..
hugsssssssssssssss!!! xxx
Leftover Chinese takeaway (for breakfast)
Banana smoothie
Sea Salted popcorn (for lunch)
2 mini doughnuts
Half a marzipan chocolate bar
1 packet crisps
Half a can of chickpeas
1 miniature bottle red wine
That's right ladies and gentlemen, I am in the middle of yet another essay-writing/procrastination-crisis. Only this one is unlike any of the others before it, for this one is an epic, 15,000-word full-on Dissertation Crisis. If I thought being cooped up in my room for 3 straight days on a 6000-word law essay bender was bad, I found myself completely unprepared for the hostage situation that is my dissertation. I (and many of my coursemates) have found myself teetering on the brink of insanity for weeks now as I waffle between wanting to get my thesis done SO BAD that I just word-vomit whatever comes into my mind, and being so completely overwhelmed that I stare at a blank Word document for hours on end in the middle of the Institute of Advanced Legal Studies library while other, more competent, students around me type away breezily on their laptops. (Dear More Competent Students: I hate you.)
This delusion slash denial manifests itself in odd ways, sometimes popping up in the form of maniacal procrastinatory shopping sprees (WHOOPS), and other times making itself known through spurious and superfluous (KA-CHINGGGG, two 50-cent words in one sentence!) email exchanges like the one below, between myself and a (freaking hilarious) coursemate:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Jocelyn James [in response to a job posting sent out for which I did not qualify]
Sent: Tue 17/08/2010 13:49
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:
i like that you have to be a national of a commonwealth country... how rude... they are just angry because america threw off the shackles of commonwealth-osity... xxxxxxxxxxxxx
ps i miss you
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Tue 8/17/2010 2:03 PM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:
they are! I have the EXACT conversation with my boss/the queen everyday. I tell them that its about time they got over it, and that its a stoopid redundant term anyway... and thats why i probably ain't getting my contract extended. Cool.
Hows it going anyway love?
I'm at work today and have somehow managed not to do a single stitch of work! i'm sort of proud..?!
I got my dissertation bound last week, it went down a storm in the academic circles field so i'm just in talks with Penguin publishing house who want to turn it into a collection of short stories on hate speech.
p(loppy)s(hit) - i miss you tooooooooo!!!
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Jocelyn James
Sent: Wed 18/08/2010 00:51
To: Deniz Ugur
Subject: RE:
so glad to hear you've got your dissertation done and dusted. when i heard you hadn't finished it by last month i was beginning to panic on your behalf.
i of course had mine done before the course even started. as a matter of fact, i came out of the womb with a tiny dissertation in my hand, and i've just been expounding upon it in the intervening years. i'm just waiting to hand it in til they invent the exact proper paper on which to print it... i'm thinking something eco-friendly, pink, and lightly scented, possibly with small sustainably-mined gold flecks in. plans are in the works by 2 leading paper companies and i'm just waiting to see which finished product i prefer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Deniz Ugur
Sent: Wed 8/18/2010 10:09 AM
To: Jocelyn James
Subject: RE:
I was up till 3 in the morn watching shows about fat brides and now at work... meant to be writing stuff about human rights in zambia but all i can see is very very very large women in wedding dresses weeping. and it just doesn't feel right..
hugsssssssssssssss!!! xxx
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That's right, I/we have now resorted to delusional projections of camaraderie with royalty, fabricated ramblings about early dissertation completion, and voyeuristic reality TV show viewing in an attempt keep the sheer terror of our September 3rd hand-in date at bay. So to all of you out there who find yourselves occasionally thinking, 'Hm, a Masters degree might be a fun way to pass the next year/two years/three years of my life', please consider yourselves warned. Unless you are prepared to get up close and personal with all kinds of your own crazy, cherish that Bachelors degree/high school diploma/GED/adult learning certificate as though it were your own offspring and consider the fact that although you may not be able to put 'Masters Degree' under the 'Education' portion of your CV, you will most likely be able to truthfully put 'clinically sane' under 'Qualifications.'
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That's right, I/we have now resorted to delusional projections of camaraderie with royalty, fabricated ramblings about early dissertation completion, and voyeuristic reality TV show viewing in an attempt keep the sheer terror of our September 3rd hand-in date at bay. So to all of you out there who find yourselves occasionally thinking, 'Hm, a Masters degree might be a fun way to pass the next year/two years/three years of my life', please consider yourselves warned. Unless you are prepared to get up close and personal with all kinds of your own crazy, cherish that Bachelors degree/high school diploma/GED/adult learning certificate as though it were your own offspring and consider the fact that although you may not be able to put 'Masters Degree' under the 'Education' portion of your CV, you will most likely be able to truthfully put 'clinically sane' under 'Qualifications.'
Saturday, 3 July 2010
Brussels: Where fashion goes to die
First of all, I have to apologise (that's right, sometimes I spell things in British-ese now) to my adoring public for having been so neglectful of my blog... no posts for TWO MONTHS?? Unacceptable, I say. And I'm sure you say the same. Who cares if I had two 6000-word essays, a dissertation abstract, and a 3-hour exam to deal with in May and June?? That's no excuse for Blog Silence. So here to rectify that is this lovely little reflection on Brussels (crimes against) fashion...
I recently took a little jaunt across the Channel to meet up with the legendary Stephen Gire in Brussels as he was on his way back from a little two-month sojourn in rural Congo (ask him about it, he *loves* the food on offer-- goat kneecap was a favorite). Needless to say, after two months of mosquito nets and river fish, he was ready for some good old European food and fun. (And of course I am *always* ready for some good old European food and fun, that's why I live here.) What neither of us was ready for was the tragic fashion (shit)show that is Brussels, Belgium. Last time I checked, Brussels was situated pretty squarely in between London and Paris, which are both pretty much Awesome Fashion Central, so imagine my surprise when I found that Brussels had somehow not got the memo that it too should be fashion-conscious like its fabulous neighbors. The thing is, it must have got SOME sort of memo filtered down from its fashion-forward sister cities because you can tell that people are TRYING to be trendy. But unfortunately something got lost in translation because they are failing oh-so-miserably. At one point I mentioned to Stephen that I found it strange there weren't any American Apparel stores in Brussels-- after all they are pretty much EVERYWHERE (I think they may have just opened one in rural Congo, right next to the goat kneecap restaurant). Stephen's response: "Yeah, you're right... wow, it's a really tragic day when an American Apparel would be an improvement on local fashion." WELL SPOTTED, Stephen, well spotted. Don't get me wrong, I love me some American Apparel-- but please note I said *some* American Apparel-- like their t-shirts and the occasional dress. You're fooling yourself if you don't think they've got some fugly stuff for sale up in that store, so you know the situation is dire when putting in an AA would be like setting up a fashion mecca for the poor misdirected Brusselians (Brusselese? Brusselers?).
One of the best (read: worst) contributions to the fashion arena came from a woman who wandered in to a bar where Stephen and I were enjoying the most expensive water of our entire lives. (8 euros for two bottles. YEP.) Anyway, this 35-to-40-ish-year-old woman walked in with her 8-ish-year-old daughter in tow and at first I didn't think anything of it as I was too busy having a small stroke over how much I had just paid for water. It wasn't until the woman got up from her table to take a picture of her daughter that my fashion sense (and indeed my common decency sense) got the wind knocked out of it. The woman was wearing TIGHTS (you know, those semi-sheer things with a CROTCH PANEL) as TROUSERS. Now, it's bad enough when I see girls sporting leggings with a short little t-shirt that comes nowhere near covering their ass, but at least I don't get a money shot of their undies. But this woman had it all on display-- undies, crotch panel, the whole nine yards. (I guess I should be grateful that she was at least WEARING undies.) It was appalling. I couldn't stop talking about it the rest of the week. We'd be out to dinner and I'd say with a shudder, "Ohhhh, remember the woman with the tights?? What was she THINKING??" And I came to the conclusion that she must have been thinking one of two things. Thought Process Number 1: "Hmmm, I've seen people wearing legging-type bottoms and tunics, and it looks really cute. Oh look, I have some like that! [finds tights buried in wardrobe] I'll pair these with that loose waist-length cotton top I got at the Moroccan flea market and it'll be the exact same look! And while I'm at it I definitely won't look at myself in the mirror from behind before I leave the house." Thought Process Number 2: "Hmmm, I want to wear something kind of trendy/sexy today. Ooh, I'll wear these form-fitting semi-sheer tights! And to balance them out I'll wear my loose-fitting cotton shirt on top-- don't want to overdo the sexy! Ooh, look at me from behind-- there's just the faintest hint of undies. Perfect!"
Thought Process Number 1 makes me sad as two sad things because she's just utterly oblivious to the fact that she's flashing everyone some ass cheek and if she found out she'd probably be unbelievably embarrassed. And Thought Process Number 2 pains me equally because if that is her definition of trendy/sexy then something has gone terribly wrong somewhere along the way, probably due to an absentee father, or watching some really bad fashion shows. So Brussels, here's my advice to you: stick to what you know (waffles, beer, chocolate) and leave the trend-setting to the people that know you shouldn't leave the house when we can all get a good glimpse of the floral pattern on your Hanes Her Ways. And if you're from Brussels and you're reading this, please don't come and kill me in my sleep for insulting your fair city's (lack of) fashion sense.
I recently took a little jaunt across the Channel to meet up with the legendary Stephen Gire in Brussels as he was on his way back from a little two-month sojourn in rural Congo (ask him about it, he *loves* the food on offer-- goat kneecap was a favorite). Needless to say, after two months of mosquito nets and river fish, he was ready for some good old European food and fun. (And of course I am *always* ready for some good old European food and fun, that's why I live here.) What neither of us was ready for was the tragic fashion (shit)show that is Brussels, Belgium. Last time I checked, Brussels was situated pretty squarely in between London and Paris, which are both pretty much Awesome Fashion Central, so imagine my surprise when I found that Brussels had somehow not got the memo that it too should be fashion-conscious like its fabulous neighbors. The thing is, it must have got SOME sort of memo filtered down from its fashion-forward sister cities because you can tell that people are TRYING to be trendy. But unfortunately something got lost in translation because they are failing oh-so-miserably. At one point I mentioned to Stephen that I found it strange there weren't any American Apparel stores in Brussels-- after all they are pretty much EVERYWHERE (I think they may have just opened one in rural Congo, right next to the goat kneecap restaurant). Stephen's response: "Yeah, you're right... wow, it's a really tragic day when an American Apparel would be an improvement on local fashion." WELL SPOTTED, Stephen, well spotted. Don't get me wrong, I love me some American Apparel-- but please note I said *some* American Apparel-- like their t-shirts and the occasional dress. You're fooling yourself if you don't think they've got some fugly stuff for sale up in that store, so you know the situation is dire when putting in an AA would be like setting up a fashion mecca for the poor misdirected Brusselians (Brusselese? Brusselers?).
One of the best (read: worst) contributions to the fashion arena came from a woman who wandered in to a bar where Stephen and I were enjoying the most expensive water of our entire lives. (8 euros for two bottles. YEP.) Anyway, this 35-to-40-ish-year-old woman walked in with her 8-ish-year-old daughter in tow and at first I didn't think anything of it as I was too busy having a small stroke over how much I had just paid for water. It wasn't until the woman got up from her table to take a picture of her daughter that my fashion sense (and indeed my common decency sense) got the wind knocked out of it. The woman was wearing TIGHTS (you know, those semi-sheer things with a CROTCH PANEL) as TROUSERS. Now, it's bad enough when I see girls sporting leggings with a short little t-shirt that comes nowhere near covering their ass, but at least I don't get a money shot of their undies. But this woman had it all on display-- undies, crotch panel, the whole nine yards. (I guess I should be grateful that she was at least WEARING undies.) It was appalling. I couldn't stop talking about it the rest of the week. We'd be out to dinner and I'd say with a shudder, "Ohhhh, remember the woman with the tights?? What was she THINKING??" And I came to the conclusion that she must have been thinking one of two things. Thought Process Number 1: "Hmmm, I've seen people wearing legging-type bottoms and tunics, and it looks really cute. Oh look, I have some like that! [finds tights buried in wardrobe] I'll pair these with that loose waist-length cotton top I got at the Moroccan flea market and it'll be the exact same look! And while I'm at it I definitely won't look at myself in the mirror from behind before I leave the house." Thought Process Number 2: "Hmmm, I want to wear something kind of trendy/sexy today. Ooh, I'll wear these form-fitting semi-sheer tights! And to balance them out I'll wear my loose-fitting cotton shirt on top-- don't want to overdo the sexy! Ooh, look at me from behind-- there's just the faintest hint of undies. Perfect!"
Thought Process Number 1 makes me sad as two sad things because she's just utterly oblivious to the fact that she's flashing everyone some ass cheek and if she found out she'd probably be unbelievably embarrassed. And Thought Process Number 2 pains me equally because if that is her definition of trendy/sexy then something has gone terribly wrong somewhere along the way, probably due to an absentee father, or watching some really bad fashion shows. So Brussels, here's my advice to you: stick to what you know (waffles, beer, chocolate) and leave the trend-setting to the people that know you shouldn't leave the house when we can all get a good glimpse of the floral pattern on your Hanes Her Ways. And if you're from Brussels and you're reading this, please don't come and kill me in my sleep for insulting your fair city's (lack of) fashion sense.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Media Project
So our most recent affliction in terms of course assignments was a 'media project.' Sounds interesting, right?? I thought so. In fact, part of the reason I chose not to drop this particular module during spring term was because I thought this assignment sounded 'creative' and we ALL know I have no trouble with creative. Well, turns out ye olde media project was just another way to get us to write about human rights in development (not like I hadn't already written a 2500-word essay on that last month), and not the arts-fest I was hoping for. Strictly no paintings allowed (how discriminatory!). So I kept it boring and wrote an article for my internship on child rights because I really couldn't be bothered to do any of the other (two) things we were allowed to do: make a video, or create a podcast. You know what those things are code for? Thinking you're taking the easy way out and then realizing halfway through that you are totally screwed. The thought process is something like this: "Hmmmm, write another bajillion words, or pick up my camera and make a video of something?? VIDEO PLEASE!!!" At least that is how it's gone for me in the past. But due to these past experiences, I know that despite what I may think at the outset, writing a bajillion words will actually take me a lot. less. time. than trying to put together a decent video. So as mentioned, I took the boring road more traveled and threw together a charity blog post. But my clever and lovely friend put me to shame and made an amazing and creative video... check it out here!
Sunday, 28 March 2010
Somebody needs to tell the British...
...to stop being so G-D polite. Because it is making it *way* too hard for me to figure out what people are thinking. And by 'people' yes I mean boys. See, in America, if a guy doesn't want to see you, or isn't interested in you, he will simply IGNORE YOU. I used to think this was annoying. I used to do the typical "ohhhh, why hasn't he called meee," the whole tragic waiting-by-the-phone scenario, ad nauseum, ad infinitum, and of course it used to bug the crap out of me. UNTIL, that is, I moved here and realized that at least when a guy just doesn't call, you KNOW he's 'just not that into you.' There is very little decoding to be done aside from "Do you think he isn't calling because my hair was flat that night, or because I sang Little Mermaid at the top of my lungs in the bar?" And so after a few days go by, you delete his number from your phone and you stop waiting for the call that isn't coming.
Not so the British!! The British are faaaaar too polite to just NOT CALL. That would be positively appalling. The Queen might get word of it and rescind her invitation to tea! (P.S. Queen, if you're reading this, I'm slightly offended that I haven't received my invitation yet-- for heaven's sake I've been in the country for six months!) Anyway, British boys feel the need to text you/call you/say polite things to you even when they wish you'd bugger off to Australia (or in my case, they're probably just praying for my extradition back to America).
Example 1: A couple of months ago, I met a lovely fellow (let's call him Shmyla) with whom I was quite taken. I figured I had nothing to lose (pride? dignity? what are those?), so I got his number and gave him a call. He didn't answer, so I left a nice little voice mail. NOW. In America, the uninterested party would get the voicemail, think to themselves "Oh crap I've got another psycho on my hands," delete said voicemail, and not return the call. But in ENGLAND, I don't even KNOW what they think to themselves because what happens is they return the call, leave a message containing some vague reference to being a bit busy at the mo, but so as not to appear rude they tell you to GIVE THEM A CALL BACK. For an American, that is Mixed Message Central. It's like-- on the one hand, you're being given the typical 'oh sorry so busy' line, but then just when you're about to give up hope, they throw out the 'oh but give me a call back to chat!' line and resurrect your hope-osity. And when you DO call them back, they tell you the same thing they told you on the voice mail: that they are ever so busy and couldn't possibly squeeze you in. At this point you FINALLY realize you're being turned down, but you wonder WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH they didn't just let you realize that a LONG-ASS TIME AGO by ignoring your call?? Or-- and this one is REALLY crazy-- just SAYING SO??
Example 2: And you thought I'd just have one rejection story! How sweet. So this time I meet a friend of a friend (let's call him Shmalex), we are all getting drinks and having a grand old time, and Shmalex and I are having a bit of a flirt. Shmalex seems quite interested, until it is time to go home and he doesn't even OFFER to walk me back to make sure I don't die along the way (WHERE WAS YOUR PRECIOUS POLITENESS THEN HMMM??? the Queen would be so disappointed.) Anyway, the next day I get a text which says the following:
"I'm pretty booked for a while now-- but yeah after I'm done it would be nice to meet up... Kind regards, Shmalex."
Yep, Shmalex signed off his text with 'Kind regards.' ARE WE WRITING A CV?? Carrie from Sex and the City once said, "My point, Billy, is that there is a good way to break up with someone, and it doesn't include a Post-It." So let me just say, "My point, Males of Britain, is that there is a right way to tell someone you're not interested, and signing off with 'Kind Regards' is not one of them." Nor is saying yes, maybe when you mean a big fat NO.
And yes, I wrote this post instead of writing the 3000-word essay on Iraqi genocide that is due tomorrow... You've got to have your priorities!! :)
Not so the British!! The British are faaaaar too polite to just NOT CALL. That would be positively appalling. The Queen might get word of it and rescind her invitation to tea! (P.S. Queen, if you're reading this, I'm slightly offended that I haven't received my invitation yet-- for heaven's sake I've been in the country for six months!) Anyway, British boys feel the need to text you/call you/say polite things to you even when they wish you'd bugger off to Australia (or in my case, they're probably just praying for my extradition back to America).
Example 1: A couple of months ago, I met a lovely fellow (let's call him Shmyla) with whom I was quite taken. I figured I had nothing to lose (pride? dignity? what are those?), so I got his number and gave him a call. He didn't answer, so I left a nice little voice mail. NOW. In America, the uninterested party would get the voicemail, think to themselves "Oh crap I've got another psycho on my hands," delete said voicemail, and not return the call. But in ENGLAND, I don't even KNOW what they think to themselves because what happens is they return the call, leave a message containing some vague reference to being a bit busy at the mo, but so as not to appear rude they tell you to GIVE THEM A CALL BACK. For an American, that is Mixed Message Central. It's like-- on the one hand, you're being given the typical 'oh sorry so busy' line, but then just when you're about to give up hope, they throw out the 'oh but give me a call back to chat!' line and resurrect your hope-osity. And when you DO call them back, they tell you the same thing they told you on the voice mail: that they are ever so busy and couldn't possibly squeeze you in. At this point you FINALLY realize you're being turned down, but you wonder WHY ON GOD'S GREEN EARTH they didn't just let you realize that a LONG-ASS TIME AGO by ignoring your call?? Or-- and this one is REALLY crazy-- just SAYING SO??
Example 2: And you thought I'd just have one rejection story! How sweet. So this time I meet a friend of a friend (let's call him Shmalex), we are all getting drinks and having a grand old time, and Shmalex and I are having a bit of a flirt. Shmalex seems quite interested, until it is time to go home and he doesn't even OFFER to walk me back to make sure I don't die along the way (WHERE WAS YOUR PRECIOUS POLITENESS THEN HMMM??? the Queen would be so disappointed.) Anyway, the next day I get a text which says the following:
"I'm pretty booked for a while now-- but yeah after I'm done it would be nice to meet up... Kind regards, Shmalex."
Yep, Shmalex signed off his text with 'Kind regards.' ARE WE WRITING A CV?? Carrie from Sex and the City once said, "My point, Billy, is that there is a good way to break up with someone, and it doesn't include a Post-It." So let me just say, "My point, Males of Britain, is that there is a right way to tell someone you're not interested, and signing off with 'Kind Regards' is not one of them." Nor is saying yes, maybe when you mean a big fat NO.
And yes, I wrote this post instead of writing the 3000-word essay on Iraqi genocide that is due tomorrow... You've got to have your priorities!! :)
Friday, 8 January 2010
Dear Law Case Essay...
...I hate you. Therefore, I am taking a break from the whopping 700 words I have so far managed to force out and writing this blog. (Hmmm, there seems to be a theme here in these past couple of blog entries...) Oh hold the phone- just did a word count and I've actually got 800 words- LOOK OUT WORLD. Anyway, I and the three glasses of wine I have so far consumed this evening thought it would be an appropriate time to fill in my public on the ridiculous (but oh-so-typically-Jocelyn) events of the last ten days...
Well as many of you know, I spent my Christmas here in London. Please don't start getting all pathetic and feeling sorry for me, because it was actually quite fun. It was my first 'grown-up' Christmas, and I cooked [vegetarian] Christmas dinner for myself and two friends, and it wasn't a complete disaster (a miracle by itself given the sad state of British ovens), and we drank wine and had a grand old polenta-with-goat-cheese time. I did, however, get to head to America right after Christmas to spend a little QT (that's Quality Time for you uninitiated) with my Stateside fam and friends. This was, of course, uber-fun and awesome (my parents are adorable and parent-y as ever, my sis and her husband still think I'm lovably insane, my tiny canine niece and nephew are still so cute it makes me want to cry, Stephen still puts up with me and my semi-alcoholic needy abandonment issues, and all my other Boston friends are still fun and fabulous and make me miss them when I leave), but the real adventures happened during the travels to and from London.
Now, I will give anyone ten dollars if they can guess who I sat behind en route from Heathrow to Los Angeles (I won't actually, but it's a good way to start a fun guessing game)... Anyway, it was FABIO. Yes, *the* Fabio of male-model-romance-novel fame. Naturally I had to strike up a conversation with him, but I couldn't just be one of those sad desperate people that ask 'Excuse me, are you so-and-so???' and whip out their camera and autograph pad. I am [obvi] much too sophisticated for that. So instead I lent Fabs a pen when he needed to fill out his landing card, and this led to several hours of chat. Turns out he is super-nice, and has four dogs, and gave me money so that I could call my sis from a payphone when we landed late in LA and I missed my connection. Quel gentleman! We also got talking on the subject of food (he was horrified that I'm a vegetarian), and he offered to take me to Nobu (that super-expensive Japanese restaurant that I can't afford because I'm a humanity-saving human rights student) if I was ever in LA or he was in London. So I can't seem to get a boyfriend like any other normal person, but apparently I have no trouble getting asked out by Fabio on international plane rides.
And lest you think my adventures ended with my flight to the States-- fear not! My flight back to London, while in itself uneventful, was the beginning of a 7-hour-long saga of trying to get back to my flat. My plane from Boston landed at Heathrow precisely on time at 9:00 p.m. No worries, right? I still have plenty of time to get through immigration and onto the Tube before it closes at midnight, right?? WRONG. Who knew I could be so wrong about so many things in this lifetime?? Anyway, after landing on time, our pilot informed us that we did not currently have access to a gate because of delays due to 'weather.' I looked out my window and wondered what on God's beautiful earth he was talking about because the sky was clear and there was only about half an inch of snow on the ground-- and NONE on the runway. If they thought this was 'weather', I kindly invite them to stay awhile in my not-so-well-heated loft apartment in Boston in the middle of January. Anyway, due to this supposed 'weather', we were forced to laze about on the runway for an hour and a half until the rest of the planes cleared out of the way and it was our turn to have a gate. Sweet relief! right?? WRONG. AGAIN. Upon disembarking from my aluminium bird of a prison, I walked directly into the most heinous immigration line I have ever encountered in my LIFE (and I have encountered some HEINOUS immigration lines in my little 23-year-span). This was like the Dowager Empress of all immigration lines. It snaked around and around and out the damn door and up the stairs of the corridor... When I saw it, a little part of me died inside. In typical American fashion I thought, "SURELY this isn't my line!! Surely we Americans have a special line where we don't have to wait!" Silly, over-privileged, American Jocelyn. I had to wait just like every other person on that plane (except the UK/EU nationals-- they DO IN FACT have a special line that goes about 14 times as fast as the "All Other Passports" queue). Anyway, I resigned myself to the hideous entity that is Heathrow Immigrations and proceeded to wait in queue for THREE HOURS. At one point, an immigration officer came round asking if anyone had small children-- if so, they were allowed to move to the front of the line. I and the man in front of me briefly considered temporarily kidnapping a toddler across from us just to preserve our sanity, until I realized that the line was so long we could probably just get married, get me knocked up, and birth our own child in the time it took us to reach the front (though we opted against this option as well).
What seemed lifetimes later (but was, as aforementioned, three hours), I exited Heathrow (or as is now fondly referred by me, Deathrow) and undertook the task of getting back to my flat. OF COURSE the Tube was closed. It closes at midnight, and due to my interminable wait in Immigration it was now 1:30 a.m. This meant that I had to navigate the ridiculously confusing and always unreliable Night Bus system, which naturally had no direct routes from Heathrow to my flat. Instead, I deduced that I'd have to take a bus from the airport to Trafalgar Square in Central London, and from there to my neighborhood in Northwest Central. Now, if you've ever had to take the Night Bus from anywhere besides Central London, you know it stops approximately every five feet and therefore takes about a hundred years to get anywhere. My bus was no exception. It took me an hour and a half just to get to Trafalgar, whereupon I attempted to switch to my local Night Bus which would take me home. But last time I checked I was in fact the Queen of Drama and Things Not Going As Planned, so of course my situation had to be further complicated by the fact that I had run out of money on my Oyster Card and the bus I was trying to get on didn't accept cash. Oh-- and the ticket machine at the bus stop was broken. I shit you not. Given that at this point it was three in the morning, you might think the bus driver would take pity on a poor lonely soul like myself, obviously just trying to make it home after an exceedingly long night of travel. YOU WOULD BE WRONG. The bus driver basically shouted at me to get off the bus, and the two police officers standing just outside were equally as sympathetic and helpful. I was told by all three gentlemen that I would just have to walk to the next bus stop where the ticket machine was working, and get a bus from there. NEAT. If you thought I was walking another FOOT at three in the morning and in an unfortunately sober state of mind, you had another think coming. I proceeded to step in front of the bus and hail a lovely, convenient, taxi cab which transported me home in a matter of minutes (with me weeping in the backseat due to Travel Complication Overload). Never have I been so thankful to a cabbie, and never have I been so thankful for my tiny, single-sized bed.
But lest you think all is tragic and my life a mess, worry not-- I've just gotten an e-mail from my new BFF Fabio telling me he's probably going to be in London in March and would love to see me. Clearly, my life is all glam...
Well as many of you know, I spent my Christmas here in London. Please don't start getting all pathetic and feeling sorry for me, because it was actually quite fun. It was my first 'grown-up' Christmas, and I cooked [vegetarian] Christmas dinner for myself and two friends, and it wasn't a complete disaster (a miracle by itself given the sad state of British ovens), and we drank wine and had a grand old polenta-with-goat-cheese time. I did, however, get to head to America right after Christmas to spend a little QT (that's Quality Time for you uninitiated) with my Stateside fam and friends. This was, of course, uber-fun and awesome (my parents are adorable and parent-y as ever, my sis and her husband still think I'm lovably insane, my tiny canine niece and nephew are still so cute it makes me want to cry, Stephen still puts up with me and my semi-alcoholic needy abandonment issues, and all my other Boston friends are still fun and fabulous and make me miss them when I leave), but the real adventures happened during the travels to and from London.
Now, I will give anyone ten dollars if they can guess who I sat behind en route from Heathrow to Los Angeles (I won't actually, but it's a good way to start a fun guessing game)... Anyway, it was FABIO. Yes, *the* Fabio of male-model-romance-novel fame. Naturally I had to strike up a conversation with him, but I couldn't just be one of those sad desperate people that ask 'Excuse me, are you so-and-so???' and whip out their camera and autograph pad. I am [obvi] much too sophisticated for that. So instead I lent Fabs a pen when he needed to fill out his landing card, and this led to several hours of chat. Turns out he is super-nice, and has four dogs, and gave me money so that I could call my sis from a payphone when we landed late in LA and I missed my connection. Quel gentleman! We also got talking on the subject of food (he was horrified that I'm a vegetarian), and he offered to take me to Nobu (that super-expensive Japanese restaurant that I can't afford because I'm a humanity-saving human rights student) if I was ever in LA or he was in London. So I can't seem to get a boyfriend like any other normal person, but apparently I have no trouble getting asked out by Fabio on international plane rides.
And lest you think my adventures ended with my flight to the States-- fear not! My flight back to London, while in itself uneventful, was the beginning of a 7-hour-long saga of trying to get back to my flat. My plane from Boston landed at Heathrow precisely on time at 9:00 p.m. No worries, right? I still have plenty of time to get through immigration and onto the Tube before it closes at midnight, right?? WRONG. Who knew I could be so wrong about so many things in this lifetime?? Anyway, after landing on time, our pilot informed us that we did not currently have access to a gate because of delays due to 'weather.' I looked out my window and wondered what on God's beautiful earth he was talking about because the sky was clear and there was only about half an inch of snow on the ground-- and NONE on the runway. If they thought this was 'weather', I kindly invite them to stay awhile in my not-so-well-heated loft apartment in Boston in the middle of January. Anyway, due to this supposed 'weather', we were forced to laze about on the runway for an hour and a half until the rest of the planes cleared out of the way and it was our turn to have a gate. Sweet relief! right?? WRONG. AGAIN. Upon disembarking from my aluminium bird of a prison, I walked directly into the most heinous immigration line I have ever encountered in my LIFE (and I have encountered some HEINOUS immigration lines in my little 23-year-span). This was like the Dowager Empress of all immigration lines. It snaked around and around and out the damn door and up the stairs of the corridor... When I saw it, a little part of me died inside. In typical American fashion I thought, "SURELY this isn't my line!! Surely we Americans have a special line where we don't have to wait!" Silly, over-privileged, American Jocelyn. I had to wait just like every other person on that plane (except the UK/EU nationals-- they DO IN FACT have a special line that goes about 14 times as fast as the "All Other Passports" queue). Anyway, I resigned myself to the hideous entity that is Heathrow Immigrations and proceeded to wait in queue for THREE HOURS. At one point, an immigration officer came round asking if anyone had small children-- if so, they were allowed to move to the front of the line. I and the man in front of me briefly considered temporarily kidnapping a toddler across from us just to preserve our sanity, until I realized that the line was so long we could probably just get married, get me knocked up, and birth our own child in the time it took us to reach the front (though we opted against this option as well).
What seemed lifetimes later (but was, as aforementioned, three hours), I exited Heathrow (or as is now fondly referred by me, Deathrow) and undertook the task of getting back to my flat. OF COURSE the Tube was closed. It closes at midnight, and due to my interminable wait in Immigration it was now 1:30 a.m. This meant that I had to navigate the ridiculously confusing and always unreliable Night Bus system, which naturally had no direct routes from Heathrow to my flat. Instead, I deduced that I'd have to take a bus from the airport to Trafalgar Square in Central London, and from there to my neighborhood in Northwest Central. Now, if you've ever had to take the Night Bus from anywhere besides Central London, you know it stops approximately every five feet and therefore takes about a hundred years to get anywhere. My bus was no exception. It took me an hour and a half just to get to Trafalgar, whereupon I attempted to switch to my local Night Bus which would take me home. But last time I checked I was in fact the Queen of Drama and Things Not Going As Planned, so of course my situation had to be further complicated by the fact that I had run out of money on my Oyster Card and the bus I was trying to get on didn't accept cash. Oh-- and the ticket machine at the bus stop was broken. I shit you not. Given that at this point it was three in the morning, you might think the bus driver would take pity on a poor lonely soul like myself, obviously just trying to make it home after an exceedingly long night of travel. YOU WOULD BE WRONG. The bus driver basically shouted at me to get off the bus, and the two police officers standing just outside were equally as sympathetic and helpful. I was told by all three gentlemen that I would just have to walk to the next bus stop where the ticket machine was working, and get a bus from there. NEAT. If you thought I was walking another FOOT at three in the morning and in an unfortunately sober state of mind, you had another think coming. I proceeded to step in front of the bus and hail a lovely, convenient, taxi cab which transported me home in a matter of minutes (with me weeping in the backseat due to Travel Complication Overload). Never have I been so thankful to a cabbie, and never have I been so thankful for my tiny, single-sized bed.
But lest you think all is tragic and my life a mess, worry not-- I've just gotten an e-mail from my new BFF Fabio telling me he's probably going to be in London in March and would love to see me. Clearly, my life is all glam...
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