Rory in Corea has been wondering about children wanting to follow in their parents' footsteps, career-wise. Apparently, Corea has bucketloads of doctors, and all those doctors' children want to be doctors too.
I was going to simply post a comment, and then realised it was going to be one of those very long and very boring ones. So I decided to abstain and post on my own blog, because I am completely allowed to be verbose and boring here.
Well, let me tell you what, when I was wee, I wanted to be when I grew older (it's a complicated structure, that, I had to think so it would be understandable. Is it?) (also, I can't believe I'm about to spill this to complete strangers...).
Let me set the stage for the first ambition that I recall. In Algeria, the loo. Yes, I can't remember my bedroom from when I lived there, but I do remember the toilets. Any question?
The actual toilet thingy was facing the door, above which in the corner on the left was a shelf, with spare bog rolls, cleaning product and stuff.
The cleaning product. Trigger of my first ambition (if such it might be called...). Actually, it's even more pathetic, it's the woman drawn upon the bottle that did it for me. I was always - and I mean always - looking up at her like she was some kind of fairy or role-model or something.
I sooooo wanted the same hairdo.
So I set my heart upon being a hairdresser. Because then I would have no trouble resembling her.
Needless to say I'm not a hairdresser. Actually, it's quite laughable to think that I ever considered that line of business, given the obvious and rather painful lack of skills that I display in the capillary area. Most of the time I look like an unshaven armpit. Quite frightful really.
No, I'm not a haidresser because I've always been unstable, so after a while, I changed course. I learned to type (qsdf jklm (French keybord obviously) over and over, and I can't do it now) and smoke at the same time (pretend, of course, because I'm trash, but my parents never were) because that was my idea of a secretary and it felt so glamourous. I just couldn't wait to answer the phone going "blabla bonjour - let me put you through". And that passed too.
It passed when I had my first brush with police/detective fiction. I've been trying to find the English version of this (because apparently it was translated) to no avail. The guy's name was Larry J Bash, he drove a Studebaker and was a trainee PI. I was in love with him everytime I read one of the books in the series. Although he was a conceited little shit most of the time, in an endearing kind of way. Plus I wasn't as passionately in love with him as I was with Marc et Thierry; they were the real thing.
After that, it was FBI FBI FBI. Because the way we pronounce CIA (cé-ee-ah) in French does not make it sound half as nice as FBI (eff-bee-aye). I really really wanted to be an FBI agent, or, if that failed (and I mean really failed, as in if there was not a chance in hell, which was not something I envisaged at all, I thought it would be a piece of cake, get married to an American, knock on Quantico's door, and in I was...) I'd become a police officer.
And then I realised that maybe that would be taking silly chances with the probability of me living to the ripe old age of 35, and decided that maybe the best course of action would be to be an actress. Well, duh. You get to be anything you want or ever wanted to be, you earn shitloads of money for that, and lots and lots of people take care of your every whim and fancy. I had it sussed!
I ended up being a translator.
Rory, it's no wonder children have no imagination or ambition anymore. They learned from our mistakes.
31 mars 2005
30 mars 2005
Now I need culture
I thought I'd wash the sin of last post off with a bit of sound culture.
Peter Carey, I love you. I'm reading "My life as a fake", and you're a genius. "True history of the Kelly gang" was amazing writing stylistically and story-wise, and you've done it again. I'm saving to buy your collected works.
Robbie Coltrane, I love you too. Have loved you since Cracker. That Fitz character... I was jealous of Penhaligon. Happy birthday (thanks IMDB, I'm not an actual stalker).
Ooh look, Australia and Scotland neatly come together. Sweet.
Peter Carey, I love you. I'm reading "My life as a fake", and you're a genius. "True history of the Kelly gang" was amazing writing stylistically and story-wise, and you've done it again. I'm saving to buy your collected works.
Robbie Coltrane, I love you too. Have loved you since Cracker. That Fitz character... I was jealous of Penhaligon. Happy birthday (thanks IMDB, I'm not an actual stalker).
Ooh look, Australia and Scotland neatly come together. Sweet.
You have GOT to be kidding me
The most ludicrous scene happened in front of my very eyes - well, via TV - yesterday. Think a bunch of very reasonable-looking people (some might even go so far as to say intelligent-looking). Think laboratory. Think research. Think vivisection. No, stop. Think sex.
Well, it just looks like some scientists have gone and done it. They found THE research area. They're watching mice have sex. And commenting on it in real time. There's no way to describe it without going graphic (as graphic as I can be on mice, and it's on a par with my knowledge of goldfish physiology). On go the mice, and out comes the scientists' voice over: "Pénétration. Stimulation. Ejaculation" (I believe there's no need to translate here).
I kid you not. I'm sure they've triggered many a vocation in a few gullible teenagers' minds.
This was a pseudo investigative journalism programme on the shittiest, most outrageously brain-killing network in France, TF1*. They were actually interspersing** their report (on sex and how it's become so pervasive) with cheap clips from porn movies***. That's how far they're ready to go in the name of journalistic integrity.
I'm so impressed.
* I just happened to be watching it. For investigative reasons of my own.
** Said I would use complicated words. There you go.
*** Not showing anything, you understand, but I'd wager my wages that they were - shoddy camera work, ridiculously bad acting and slutty looks, what else could it be?
Well, it just looks like some scientists have gone and done it. They found THE research area. They're watching mice have sex. And commenting on it in real time. There's no way to describe it without going graphic (as graphic as I can be on mice, and it's on a par with my knowledge of goldfish physiology). On go the mice, and out comes the scientists' voice over: "Pénétration. Stimulation. Ejaculation" (I believe there's no need to translate here).
I kid you not. I'm sure they've triggered many a vocation in a few gullible teenagers' minds.
This was a pseudo investigative journalism programme on the shittiest, most outrageously brain-killing network in France, TF1*. They were actually interspersing** their report (on sex and how it's become so pervasive) with cheap clips from porn movies***. That's how far they're ready to go in the name of journalistic integrity.
I'm so impressed.
* I just happened to be watching it. For investigative reasons of my own.
** Said I would use complicated words. There you go.
*** Not showing anything, you understand, but I'd wager my wages that they were - shoddy camera work, ridiculously bad acting and slutty looks, what else could it be?
28 mars 2005
A myth crumbled
You're about to get some precious insight as to the origins of my insanity.
Battle of the Planets.
Yup, the anime series - same period as Goldorak, Captain Future and Captain Harlock, waaaay before the crappy and/or over-violent ones they're showing these days, and strangely a lot less famous in France (oh, and I hope you appreciate the research here, because it did take a bit of time to find links in all three concerned languages).
Anyway. Battle of the planets.
There were 5 of them: the girl, the chubby one, the little kid, and... drum roll, names in French: Marc et Thierry.
I was 6 or something and maaaaadly in love. With both of them. Cartoon characters, what else is there to say? Once my homework was done, I would rush to the TV, and nobody could have dislodged me. There was no point trying to talk to me for 15 minutes either. I was a goner. It was Marc et Thierry this, Marc et Thierry that.
It lasted a year or something, and then I moved on to Elvis Presley and Clint Eastwood. My legendary good taste in men was born.
But I always had a soft spot for those two unreal characters. And it wasn't always easy, because no one remembered Battle of the Planets. Everybody knew Goldorak, everybody knew Capitaine Flam, but 7-Zark-7 or the Phoenix never rang a bell in anyone. So there was no point in me talking about my crush to anyone as nobody would have nodded knowingly and gone "oh yeah, me too" in a conspiratorial tone because they understood the crush; and I carried my burden alone.
And then my brother got me the DVD set. And last night, I was with some friends, and I had the urge to share. We watched. And boy did we laugh. There's no action, the voice-over is ridiculously elaborate for children (which is good, I guess, as it builds their vocabulary, but there's got to be a limit...), and I was waiting with bated breath to see THE boys. Oh I saw. Oh dear. How. Is it. Possible. To have lived in a LIE for so long. I've been carrying a torch for a quarter of a century (there, I've said it) for two ugly boys who aren't even real.
They'd need to be wearing their helmets all the time (because they are kind of cute in those), and that feels wrong, doesn't it? A bit like saying "HER?? Err, with a brownpaper bag over her head, yeah, maybe. Otherwise, it's a no-no".
Battle of the Planets.
Yup, the anime series - same period as Goldorak, Captain Future and Captain Harlock, waaaay before the crappy and/or over-violent ones they're showing these days, and strangely a lot less famous in France (oh, and I hope you appreciate the research here, because it did take a bit of time to find links in all three concerned languages).
Anyway. Battle of the planets.
There were 5 of them: the girl, the chubby one, the little kid, and... drum roll, names in French: Marc et Thierry.
I was 6 or something and maaaaadly in love. With both of them. Cartoon characters, what else is there to say? Once my homework was done, I would rush to the TV, and nobody could have dislodged me. There was no point trying to talk to me for 15 minutes either. I was a goner. It was Marc et Thierry this, Marc et Thierry that.
It lasted a year or something, and then I moved on to Elvis Presley and Clint Eastwood. My legendary good taste in men was born.
But I always had a soft spot for those two unreal characters. And it wasn't always easy, because no one remembered Battle of the Planets. Everybody knew Goldorak, everybody knew Capitaine Flam, but 7-Zark-7 or the Phoenix never rang a bell in anyone. So there was no point in me talking about my crush to anyone as nobody would have nodded knowingly and gone "oh yeah, me too" in a conspiratorial tone because they understood the crush; and I carried my burden alone.
And then my brother got me the DVD set. And last night, I was with some friends, and I had the urge to share. We watched. And boy did we laugh. There's no action, the voice-over is ridiculously elaborate for children (which is good, I guess, as it builds their vocabulary, but there's got to be a limit...), and I was waiting with bated breath to see THE boys. Oh I saw. Oh dear. How. Is it. Possible. To have lived in a LIE for so long. I've been carrying a torch for a quarter of a century (there, I've said it) for two ugly boys who aren't even real.
They'd need to be wearing their helmets all the time (because they are kind of cute in those), and that feels wrong, doesn't it? A bit like saying "HER?? Err, with a brownpaper bag over her head, yeah, maybe. Otherwise, it's a no-no".
26 mars 2005
Du sang et des larmes
At long last*, the French authorities have launched a campaign that shows blood and possibly brain matter (I haven't investigated that closely, to be honest) to "promote" the seatbelt at the back of the car.
Believe me, I'm not being patronising, I hate wearing a seat belt because it makes me feel trapped (and no, I'm not claustrophobic) and presses on my breasts, which is extremely uncomfortable. So I often don't - stop booing at the back.
Follow that link, click on the buckle to enter, click on the Campagne button and it will show you the video. If you don't speak French, the woman is just saying that something is missing from the car. What is it, can you spot it?
Suffice it to say that one of the guys won't have to fill in his tax form. And let that be a lesson to me and everyone else who is scratching their head trying to cope with that particular governmental torture instrument: there is a way out, people!
Now, because I like to launch debates in which no one else will comment, does anyone else feel like the belt can be a little dangerous too? Every time I do buckle up, I feel a little apprehensive that should I be in an accident, I'll be so panicky that I won't be able to undo the belt before the car bursts into flames and I die a horrible, slow and very painful death, trapped in the car in an Audrey-Rose kind of way. Shudder. Who else saw that movie when they were really young and got an actual trauma from it? I vividly remember the exact circumstances, and I was something like 10 (for those of you who are trying to figure my age out from this bit of information, don't bother, I saw it on TV).
* Actually they had already done a similar stint for road safety, but I didn't have a blog then.So there you go, now you know, I will twist information so it fits my requirements. Be warned.
Believe me, I'm not being patronising, I hate wearing a seat belt because it makes me feel trapped (and no, I'm not claustrophobic) and presses on my breasts, which is extremely uncomfortable. So I often don't - stop booing at the back.
Follow that link, click on the buckle to enter, click on the Campagne button and it will show you the video. If you don't speak French, the woman is just saying that something is missing from the car. What is it, can you spot it?
Suffice it to say that one of the guys won't have to fill in his tax form. And let that be a lesson to me and everyone else who is scratching their head trying to cope with that particular governmental torture instrument: there is a way out, people!
Now, because I like to launch debates in which no one else will comment, does anyone else feel like the belt can be a little dangerous too? Every time I do buckle up, I feel a little apprehensive that should I be in an accident, I'll be so panicky that I won't be able to undo the belt before the car bursts into flames and I die a horrible, slow and very painful death, trapped in the car in an Audrey-Rose kind of way. Shudder. Who else saw that movie when they were really young and got an actual trauma from it? I vividly remember the exact circumstances, and I was something like 10 (for those of you who are trying to figure my age out from this bit of information, don't bother, I saw it on TV).
* Actually they had already done a similar stint for road safety, but I didn't have a blog then.So there you go, now you know, I will twist information so it fits my requirements. Be warned.
25 mars 2005
And I let fame fly me by
Running an errand (does that word use the singular?) yesterday afternoon, I was deep in thought and in my conversation with my mom over the phone.
On the way "in", I had kind of noticed that some people definitely had cameras and mike-thingies but I thought... Oh come on, who am I kidding, I didn't think anything, I just saw them and barely registered. Especially as there were not really all that many of them and no bright lights making my various blemishes stand cruelly out. I do digress, don't I.
So on I go, do what I have to do, and walk back to work in the brisk and determined canter that I have a liking for when in business. On the phone. Because it looks so much more business-like. No one needs to know that I'm talking to my mum, right? Also, I'm not talking to her in a whingeing "Mo-o-o-m" tone, but about culture: she's off rehearsing because she sings (not professionally, let me add, but that doesn't make her any less good. And she doesn't even read this, that's how good she is), and I'm asking her where the bugger the last two tomes of Alexandre Dumas's "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" are, because the suspense at the end of the second book is just about killing me.
Oh and should I add that I'm looking down, because that's what you do when you're walking the Parisian sidewalks, the true owners of which are the little doggies and their numerous, treacherous, and sometimes enormous turds. And you want to avoid those at all costs (although, truth be told, sometimes it just doesn't work, and you put your foot in it, quite literally).
Now, I'm not telling you all this so you can look up to the sun and say "is she EVAH going to get to the POINT?". No, I'm actually going to the trouble of typing it all up so you understand what led to what.
Thus I was walking in the fashion described above, when suddenly this very pretty girl strides towards me, talking really loud, seemingly at me. I'm wondering. Understandable, I'm sure you'll agree: what have I done? Nothing, as it transpires as she gets closer that she's obviously talking to someone else. Someone deaf, considering the intensity. When she's close enough, I recognise her. Olivia Bonamy. That's when it all hits me. That's when I nearly hit the mike-guy as well. So I swerve extremely artfully, i.e. without letting anything on, in order to avoid the mike, the camera, everything; pull a face (not, thank gawd, caught on camera, I don't think) as I realise what's going on (but anyway that would be all right, because I'm on the phone, remember, so I could just be reacting to what the other person, which nobody knows is my mum, has just said... Ah, I've got it all sussed), and walk on. Toward a blond guy standing in a doorway. Looking at me like I'm so stupid I should be shot before I start suffering from so much stupidity. I think it might have been Guillaume Depardieu (son of Gérard). Although I'm not sure, because apparently (I've checked, how pathetic) they're not shooting anything together. Well, no film anyway.
You'll probably be pleased to know I didn't drop everything right then and there, shrieking in a Janice-from-Friends way "Oh.My.God. Huh huh huh huh." (the last part is my lame attempt at transcribing her... sound) and asking all of them to hire me, even for a very small part, even not a speaking part, even a silhouette in the crowd. Even to bring them coffee on the set.
No, not this girl. This girl just kept totally cool, went on talking to her mum, walked on and away from her obvious destiny as a French TV celeb, and back to the job she's leaving soon.
Just think though. Maybe I would have ended up really marrying George, after some very twisted but efficient networking. Well, it would have had to be twisted, right: it's not exactly a straight line from French TV to Danny Ocean. He-llo?
Oh well. I guess I'm meant for great things.
In my neighbourhood.
On the way "in", I had kind of noticed that some people definitely had cameras and mike-thingies but I thought... Oh come on, who am I kidding, I didn't think anything, I just saw them and barely registered. Especially as there were not really all that many of them and no bright lights making my various blemishes stand cruelly out. I do digress, don't I.
So on I go, do what I have to do, and walk back to work in the brisk and determined canter that I have a liking for when in business. On the phone. Because it looks so much more business-like. No one needs to know that I'm talking to my mum, right? Also, I'm not talking to her in a whingeing "Mo-o-o-m" tone, but about culture: she's off rehearsing because she sings (not professionally, let me add, but that doesn't make her any less good. And she doesn't even read this, that's how good she is), and I'm asking her where the bugger the last two tomes of Alexandre Dumas's "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" are, because the suspense at the end of the second book is just about killing me.
Oh and should I add that I'm looking down, because that's what you do when you're walking the Parisian sidewalks, the true owners of which are the little doggies and their numerous, treacherous, and sometimes enormous turds. And you want to avoid those at all costs (although, truth be told, sometimes it just doesn't work, and you put your foot in it, quite literally).
Now, I'm not telling you all this so you can look up to the sun and say "is she EVAH going to get to the POINT?". No, I'm actually going to the trouble of typing it all up so you understand what led to what.
Thus I was walking in the fashion described above, when suddenly this very pretty girl strides towards me, talking really loud, seemingly at me. I'm wondering. Understandable, I'm sure you'll agree: what have I done? Nothing, as it transpires as she gets closer that she's obviously talking to someone else. Someone deaf, considering the intensity. When she's close enough, I recognise her. Olivia Bonamy. That's when it all hits me. That's when I nearly hit the mike-guy as well. So I swerve extremely artfully, i.e. without letting anything on, in order to avoid the mike, the camera, everything; pull a face (not, thank gawd, caught on camera, I don't think) as I realise what's going on (but anyway that would be all right, because I'm on the phone, remember, so I could just be reacting to what the other person, which nobody knows is my mum, has just said... Ah, I've got it all sussed), and walk on. Toward a blond guy standing in a doorway. Looking at me like I'm so stupid I should be shot before I start suffering from so much stupidity. I think it might have been Guillaume Depardieu (son of Gérard). Although I'm not sure, because apparently (I've checked, how pathetic) they're not shooting anything together. Well, no film anyway.
You'll probably be pleased to know I didn't drop everything right then and there, shrieking in a Janice-from-Friends way "Oh.My.God. Huh huh huh huh." (the last part is my lame attempt at transcribing her... sound) and asking all of them to hire me, even for a very small part, even not a speaking part, even a silhouette in the crowd. Even to bring them coffee on the set.
No, not this girl. This girl just kept totally cool, went on talking to her mum, walked on and away from her obvious destiny as a French TV celeb, and back to the job she's leaving soon.
Just think though. Maybe I would have ended up really marrying George, after some very twisted but efficient networking. Well, it would have had to be twisted, right: it's not exactly a straight line from French TV to Danny Ocean. He-llo?
Oh well. I guess I'm meant for great things.
In my neighbourhood.
24 mars 2005
Duck-o-thon
Scaryduck is ill and needs comforting. He's asked for jokes, and for the life of me I can't find one. If you know of a good one (and believe me, the ones I've read so far are fab), go tell him and the world.
23 mars 2005
Well, that was that
It's all going pear-shaped. And I'm not talking about my quickly deteriorating figure.
I've talked to the Rugby World Cup guy. Not gonna happen. I have a couple of other leads for the same event, but it doesn't look like it's on the right track. Sorry Andy.
I'll be off drinking now.
I've talked to the Rugby World Cup guy. Not gonna happen. I have a couple of other leads for the same event, but it doesn't look like it's on the right track. Sorry Andy.
I'll be off drinking now.
22 mars 2005
Moby
Moby has just been a guest on the French TV show "20h10 pétantes".
Without fail, seeing or hearing Moby brings me back to 2000, on a suburbs train in Sydney, coming back from Homebush with a couple of friends, one of which just hates Moby's guts. The conversation was flowing, intellectual stuff of the highest order, and then one of us brought Moby up. Or maybe it was just the PA system in the train. Whatever. The M word was pronounced, and with that, Alex got started. We just sat there and listened to him rant hilariously for a while, just going on and on. Bitching, fabulously so.
As this was one of the first times I'd actually talked to him, it's stayed with me - you know how first impressions last.
Since then, every time I've listened to Moby's music, I've felt a pang of guilt. Like, oh dear, I hope Alex never finds out. Rest assured, he has, because I just blurted it out once - and boy did I feel like I'd just admitted to my parents that yes, even though they had expressly forbidden me to, I had indeed gone to that party*.
So, Alex, if you ever read this, I'll give you one thing, Moby's not really funny in the flesh.
Still does good music though.
*Mum, Dad - of course I didn't go.
Without fail, seeing or hearing Moby brings me back to 2000, on a suburbs train in Sydney, coming back from Homebush with a couple of friends, one of which just hates Moby's guts. The conversation was flowing, intellectual stuff of the highest order, and then one of us brought Moby up. Or maybe it was just the PA system in the train. Whatever. The M word was pronounced, and with that, Alex got started. We just sat there and listened to him rant hilariously for a while, just going on and on. Bitching, fabulously so.
As this was one of the first times I'd actually talked to him, it's stayed with me - you know how first impressions last.
Since then, every time I've listened to Moby's music, I've felt a pang of guilt. Like, oh dear, I hope Alex never finds out. Rest assured, he has, because I just blurted it out once - and boy did I feel like I'd just admitted to my parents that yes, even though they had expressly forbidden me to, I had indeed gone to that party*.
So, Alex, if you ever read this, I'll give you one thing, Moby's not really funny in the flesh.
Still does good music though.
*Mum, Dad - of course I didn't go.
Ca ne nous rajeunit pas...
That's it. I'm old. And I don't want it to be known.
We were comparing scars with friends. Not, I hasten to say, in a Lethal Weapon 3 sort of way, but rather in a Freddy Kruger fashion, as it had all to do with burn marks.
I have a few scars on my hands, if you really must know. One from a nasty cut (no fingerprint on one of my fingers, eh eh, because I once tried to do a McGyver), some from burns, one from slamming a car door on my hand (which is quickly fading to nothing, I'm sad to report). And I was trying to figure out when I had burnt my left index when I went "OK, how old am I?" And stopped dead.
I'm this: young at heart. Nobody is allowed to say my age out loud from now on. Lest they be severely punished.
We were comparing scars with friends. Not, I hasten to say, in a Lethal Weapon 3 sort of way, but rather in a Freddy Kruger fashion, as it had all to do with burn marks.
I have a few scars on my hands, if you really must know. One from a nasty cut (no fingerprint on one of my fingers, eh eh, because I once tried to do a McGyver), some from burns, one from slamming a car door on my hand (which is quickly fading to nothing, I'm sad to report). And I was trying to figure out when I had burnt my left index when I went "OK, how old am I?" And stopped dead.
I'm this: young at heart. Nobody is allowed to say my age out loud from now on. Lest they be severely punished.
I'm screwed
First things first. I'm sprawled on my couch, with my laptop on my lap as it should be, and the dictionary is on the very opposite end of the room; I just couldn't reach it, unless I was Mrs. Incredible. So you're going to have to make do with my verbose explanations of things that would probably require only a couple of words if a normal person was referring to them.
I've just lost about three hours of my very productive and thrilling life to a meeting of flat-owners. See, there's probably a word for that. Warning. Verbose explanation ahead. In France, when you own a flat, you have a "flat-owner meeting" once a year. With a fucker called a "managing agent". I've already expressed all the love I feel for that particular sub-species. That's when you decide what works need doing in the building, with the "help" of the aforementioned fucker.
As the aforementioned have been doing bugger all for near-on 2 years, we've decided that before the next meeting is due next week, we would prepare. So we had us a little meeting, neighbours and never friends, being very careful to spew all the hatred we have for the managing agency and none of the contempt we might feel for each other. We were rather good, I dare say.
The upshot of this little get-together was this: we're giving them one last chance (and quite the bucketload of dough in the process), and if they screw up, we'll start looking elsewhere.
The more important upshot of the evening was that, as, I repeat, nothing was done for two years (this is not a figure of speech, I do mean nothing, sweet FA, nada, zilch), said building has fallen into a state of borderline ruin. OK, that I might be exaggerating a tad, but still. We need to fix and change (or change and fix) all the pipes in the building - 16 in all, yes, dear reader, that's sixteen, let me spell it out for you, s-i-x-t-e-e-n - and basically rebuild a wall that's allegedly leaking into the flats on my side of the building.
Now, as you can imagine, no-one is ever gonna do that for free. Or a piece of candy. Or my never-ending gratitude and appreciation. No no no. We'll have to pay. A lot of money. A loooot of money. For eight years. Or something.
I'm out of a job in 6 weeks. I'm not sure yet that I'm ever finding another one. I'll soon be living under the bridges, and that song has already been sung. I'm screwed.
I've just lost about three hours of my very productive and thrilling life to a meeting of flat-owners. See, there's probably a word for that. Warning. Verbose explanation ahead. In France, when you own a flat, you have a "flat-owner meeting" once a year. With a fucker called a "managing agent". I've already expressed all the love I feel for that particular sub-species. That's when you decide what works need doing in the building, with the "help" of the aforementioned fucker.
As the aforementioned have been doing bugger all for near-on 2 years, we've decided that before the next meeting is due next week, we would prepare. So we had us a little meeting, neighbours and never friends, being very careful to spew all the hatred we have for the managing agency and none of the contempt we might feel for each other. We were rather good, I dare say.
The upshot of this little get-together was this: we're giving them one last chance (and quite the bucketload of dough in the process), and if they screw up, we'll start looking elsewhere.
The more important upshot of the evening was that, as, I repeat, nothing was done for two years (this is not a figure of speech, I do mean nothing, sweet FA, nada, zilch), said building has fallen into a state of borderline ruin. OK, that I might be exaggerating a tad, but still. We need to fix and change (or change and fix) all the pipes in the building - 16 in all, yes, dear reader, that's sixteen, let me spell it out for you, s-i-x-t-e-e-n - and basically rebuild a wall that's allegedly leaking into the flats on my side of the building.
Now, as you can imagine, no-one is ever gonna do that for free. Or a piece of candy. Or my never-ending gratitude and appreciation. No no no. We'll have to pay. A lot of money. A loooot of money. For eight years. Or something.
I'm out of a job in 6 weeks. I'm not sure yet that I'm ever finding another one. I'll soon be living under the bridges, and that song has already been sung. I'm screwed.
20 mars 2005
Wish me luck
I said I was leaving my job soon, because of personal reasons.
Those personal reasons are "just" that I've reached that age or that stage when I need my job to be what I want it to be: not something I've happened to work in or something to fall back onto, but something I really want to do.
I'm going out on a limb here, because I'm very superstitious that way, and I certainly don't want those particular efforts to be jinxed by my talking about it, but I desperately need all the luck I can get. I worked for the Olympic Games in Sydney, and I really want to go back to that specific area. It's just extraordinary.
So I've started harassing the Rugby World Cup Organising Committee in Paris (it's happening in France in 2007) and I've just sent another letter cum CV to the Olympic Games Organising Committee in Torino (winter Games in 2006).
I'll phone the people in Paris tomorrow, and I'll be waiting with bated breath to hear from Italy.
Wish me luck.
Oh yeah, and mean it.
Those personal reasons are "just" that I've reached that age or that stage when I need my job to be what I want it to be: not something I've happened to work in or something to fall back onto, but something I really want to do.
I'm going out on a limb here, because I'm very superstitious that way, and I certainly don't want those particular efforts to be jinxed by my talking about it, but I desperately need all the luck I can get. I worked for the Olympic Games in Sydney, and I really want to go back to that specific area. It's just extraordinary.
So I've started harassing the Rugby World Cup Organising Committee in Paris (it's happening in France in 2007) and I've just sent another letter cum CV to the Olympic Games Organising Committee in Torino (winter Games in 2006).
I'll phone the people in Paris tomorrow, and I'll be waiting with bated breath to hear from Italy.
Wish me luck.
Oh yeah, and mean it.
19 mars 2005
Je vis manifestement dans l'erreur
I was utterly convinced that the last day of the 6 Nations' Tournament was next week. Which would have been a lot more convenient for me; I was already planning on my drinking problem getting even better (or more pronounced, depending on where you stand - just not worse) at the pub, watching all three games. As it is, I'll be watching them on telly, getting gently intoxicated by the fumes of housework products and stuff. Something to look forward to.
Anyway.
France is obviously not going to win this one (even with a thrashing of Italy, I'm sure, err hope).
The Tournament, I mean, not the game, I just realised how confusing this sentence could be.
As for Scotland, well. I just hope they score.
Ireland on the other hand... It's only Wales after all.
Anyway.
France is obviously not going to win this one (even with a thrashing of Italy, I'm sure, err hope).
The Tournament, I mean, not the game, I just realised how confusing this sentence could be.
As for Scotland, well. I just hope they score.
Ireland on the other hand... It's only Wales after all.
I was misled
I have apparently been advertising a wrong date for spring. It seems it's due tomorrow, not Monday. So ever since I started that countdown thing, that had L'Oiseau so confused yesterday, I've been using the wrong numbers.
As I'mpig-headed stubborn persistent, I will go on using the same sequence. Also, it would be silly to go straight from 3 yesterday to 1 today. So there are 2 days left till spring but really, this is the last day of winter.
One day can never, in my books, be accounted for.
As I'm
One day can never, in my books, be accounted for.
18 mars 2005
Will today ever end?
Gaaah, I'm having the longest, most boring day ever. No, not ever, I can think of a whole week not that long ago.
I don't know if St Patrick's Day can ever have that effect in France, but basically, it's like everybody's on holiday again, or nursing their hangovers (why is it that I always want to spell that hungovers? I wonder). No e-mails (apart from ridiculously sender-ed spams), hardly a phone call to wake me from this mind-numbing daze I'm in, definitely none anyway that'll have me hang up the phone going "Arrggghhh, how bloody stupid can you get" or "Arrggghhh, how do I have to spell no for you to understand", or "Arrggghhh, oh hi, is that you boss". Nuttin'. Some of the blogs I read have not even been updated - as they SHOULD have been.
I have a bit of stuff to translate, but come on, that's not going to happen now, right?
The cerebral death of me. 30 more minutes and I'll run away screaming.
I don't know if St Patrick's Day can ever have that effect in France, but basically, it's like everybody's on holiday again, or nursing their hangovers (why is it that I always want to spell that hungovers? I wonder). No e-mails (apart from ridiculously sender-ed spams), hardly a phone call to wake me from this mind-numbing daze I'm in, definitely none anyway that'll have me hang up the phone going "Arrggghhh, how bloody stupid can you get" or "Arrggghhh, how do I have to spell no for you to understand", or "Arrggghhh, oh hi, is that you boss". Nuttin'. Some of the blogs I read have not even been updated - as they SHOULD have been.
I have a bit of stuff to translate, but come on, that's not going to happen now, right?
The cerebral death of me. 30 more minutes and I'll run away screaming.
Politics and commercials
I am venturing into grounds that I do not feel comfortable in at all. Still, without risks, life is not worth living and so on.
Pacha Tours, a travel agent exclusively specialising in Turkey, has launched its new advertising campaign. "Yes to the entry of Europeans into Turkey" goes the slogan.
I find that extremely clever. And I like to think it's being wryly funny. What non-Europeans might not know is that a major debate was started a few months ago about Turkey's EU entry. I fear it boils down to a we're Christians/they're Muslims kind of controversy (bordering on/well into racism for some), which makes me cringe a little.
Indeed, Turkey has been a holiday of choice for a long time, as it's cheap, it's sunny, it's cultural...
If I forget about Midnight Express for a second, I'd looooove to see everything that Turkey has to offer (which precludes it from being my holiday destination, because of all the energy that would have to go into it, unless I go visit Lilith first, in which case I'll probably be more rested coming back from Edinburgh - oh no, hang on, that's completely unlikely).
I seem to recall (but I was sooo young at the time, how can I be sure...) that the entry of Portugal, Spain, and Greece led to a similar debate, mostly because of how poor those countries were at the time. Now I can't vouch for Portugal and Greece, but I'm pretty sure Spain has enjoyed some kind of economic miracle... And then, if we're still going to try the poverty argument, letting all of Eastern Europe into the EU wasn't exactly going to increase the per capita GDP.
So poverty must be out of the equation.
That leaves us with some murky religion/race consideration.
Granted, I'd not necessarily be thrilled if Europe were to annex the rest of the world on the basis that we're all brothers and love each other, whatever race, sex or creed, because that would kind of smack of imperialism.
But Turkey, come on. They're in the EUROvision song contest, for christ's sake.
Pacha Tours, a travel agent exclusively specialising in Turkey, has launched its new advertising campaign. "Yes to the entry of Europeans into Turkey" goes the slogan.
I find that extremely clever. And I like to think it's being wryly funny. What non-Europeans might not know is that a major debate was started a few months ago about Turkey's EU entry. I fear it boils down to a we're Christians/they're Muslims kind of controversy (bordering on/well into racism for some), which makes me cringe a little.
Indeed, Turkey has been a holiday of choice for a long time, as it's cheap, it's sunny, it's cultural...
If I forget about Midnight Express for a second, I'd looooove to see everything that Turkey has to offer (which precludes it from being my holiday destination, because of all the energy that would have to go into it, unless I go visit Lilith first, in which case I'll probably be more rested coming back from Edinburgh - oh no, hang on, that's completely unlikely).
I seem to recall (but I was sooo young at the time, how can I be sure...) that the entry of Portugal, Spain, and Greece led to a similar debate, mostly because of how poor those countries were at the time. Now I can't vouch for Portugal and Greece, but I'm pretty sure Spain has enjoyed some kind of economic miracle... And then, if we're still going to try the poverty argument, letting all of Eastern Europe into the EU wasn't exactly going to increase the per capita GDP.
So poverty must be out of the equation.
That leaves us with some murky religion/race consideration.
Granted, I'd not necessarily be thrilled if Europe were to annex the rest of the world on the basis that we're all brothers and love each other, whatever race, sex or creed, because that would kind of smack of imperialism.
But Turkey, come on. They're in the EUROvision song contest, for christ's sake.
I am very ill
All right, I'll admit, that title was here only to alarm you and lure you to read on. I'm actually on top form - save for the lack of sleep which is continuing, but now I don't really care; I've reached that point of tiredness where I'm close to full-time hysterical. People at work are having a fab time, I can assure you: extremely grumpy Mondays, then hyper-oxygenated and mad, and on and on it goes.
No, I'm a bit curious actually: I have apparently grown a cyst. In my hand. It's like my little pet, like a little fat blob or something, that I can feel, right at the basis of my left-hand ring finger. So I often stroke it, just to make sure that it's still there and it's happy.
Well, some people adopt a cat, I grow a cyst. Each to their own, I'm not judging you, don't judge me.
Also, I really don't have that much to talk about (so why do I post?? well... fame, money, easy lays, all these answers come to mind).
Spring is here, at long bloody last (I'm still doing the countdown thing for the sake of integrity). I'm going to do some major houseworking this week-end. Especially since I'm going to a paaartay saturday evening, so that means I'll enjoy a clean flat for at least 36 hours straight. Hur-ray.
But I'm not sure you really want to hear about how I'll go about spring-cleaning. Do you? Do you? Naah, I didn't think so.
Anyway, it's 8:00 now, in the words of Zoolander, I really really ridiculously don't want to go to work (a recurring moan, isn't it), and I'm late as it is. But it's Friday. I don't really care.
No, I'm a bit curious actually: I have apparently grown a cyst. In my hand. It's like my little pet, like a little fat blob or something, that I can feel, right at the basis of my left-hand ring finger. So I often stroke it, just to make sure that it's still there and it's happy.
Well, some people adopt a cat, I grow a cyst. Each to their own, I'm not judging you, don't judge me.
Also, I really don't have that much to talk about (so why do I post?? well... fame, money, easy lays, all these answers come to mind).
Spring is here, at long bloody last (I'm still doing the countdown thing for the sake of integrity). I'm going to do some major houseworking this week-end. Especially since I'm going to a paaartay saturday evening, so that means I'll enjoy a clean flat for at least 36 hours straight. Hur-ray.
But I'm not sure you really want to hear about how I'll go about spring-cleaning. Do you? Do you? Naah, I didn't think so.
Anyway, it's 8:00 now, in the words of Zoolander, I really really ridiculously don't want to go to work (a recurring moan, isn't it), and I'm late as it is. But it's Friday. I don't really care.
17 mars 2005
Grillée par la fraîcheur*
I was going to post something about Saint Patrick's day, knowing full well that I'd not be the only one. Although I don't know any other blog sporting the colour theme 24/7. AH! got you there, didn't I.
However, lots of people have already posted. So I'll just plod on, finding something else to talk about.
Actually I do have something else to talk about. Might not be interesting though, be warned.
I'll be twiddling my thumbs in about 8 weeks now. I'm looking for a job as I type, but nothing's for certain. Also, because I'm a fussy, choosy, picky cow, I want THE job, and I NEED the timeframe. Ideally, I'll be leaving work mid-May (just in time to enjoy the warmer weather, yay), and ideally I'll have found THE job starting around September. That's 3.5 months doing sod all, which sounds like just what the doctor's ordered. Come to think of it, that's too long, it's aeons since I've been a student, and I don't think I can handle that long a period of inactivity, so I'll be happy starting in August. Or July. Or even June. Just May's out of the question.
So that's when you come in, dear readers... I need ideas for a holiday. Ideally still, I'd go back to Oz or Scotland, but it would never be long enough**. So I'll have to settle for something else. As I won't be too comfortable budget-wise, I'm thinking of a week somewhere, the catch being that I really need to be doing fuck-all, so that means no visits of temples, no hikes at sunrise just to see the sun rise over the tops of the hills, no intensive sports to get rid of all that tension. Fuck-all. The sun. And the beach. And the pool in case I can't be bothered going to the beach.
Then the people I'm hoping for will call me and say "Thank god you applied with us, we've been looking for someone just like you and couldn't find anybody". I'll refrain from asking whether it was neuroses they were looking for, thank them humbly and politely, hang up in a trance. Start with them a couple weeks later, on an unbelievable pay, for an incredible job, where all my talents will be recognised and widely admired, get quickly promoted. By the time I'm 45, I'll rule the world. My husband will be George Clooney (who never could resist a woman with a personality), and I dare say I will be a happy bunny.
Haven't I got it all sorted?
* Reference to a French commercial. Can't translate. Sorry.
** Yes, I have tried to find a job there, and have failed miserably because I have been very consistently unlucky in love, game, and work. I also have a working visa for Australia, would you believe, with a company that so screwed me over that I'm now in writing therapy all over the interweb. Anything else? Oh yeah, and if you happen to know an Aussie pining for European citizenship, send them to me - although why he would be is beyond me.
However, lots of people have already posted. So I'll just plod on, finding something else to talk about.
Actually I do have something else to talk about. Might not be interesting though, be warned.
I'll be twiddling my thumbs in about 8 weeks now. I'm looking for a job as I type, but nothing's for certain. Also, because I'm a fussy, choosy, picky cow, I want THE job, and I NEED the timeframe. Ideally, I'll be leaving work mid-May (just in time to enjoy the warmer weather, yay), and ideally I'll have found THE job starting around September. That's 3.5 months doing sod all, which sounds like just what the doctor's ordered. Come to think of it, that's too long, it's aeons since I've been a student, and I don't think I can handle that long a period of inactivity, so I'll be happy starting in August. Or July. Or even June. Just May's out of the question.
So that's when you come in, dear readers... I need ideas for a holiday. Ideally still, I'd go back to Oz or Scotland, but it would never be long enough**. So I'll have to settle for something else. As I won't be too comfortable budget-wise, I'm thinking of a week somewhere, the catch being that I really need to be doing fuck-all, so that means no visits of temples, no hikes at sunrise just to see the sun rise over the tops of the hills, no intensive sports to get rid of all that tension. Fuck-all. The sun. And the beach. And the pool in case I can't be bothered going to the beach.
Then the people I'm hoping for will call me and say "Thank god you applied with us, we've been looking for someone just like you and couldn't find anybody". I'll refrain from asking whether it was neuroses they were looking for, thank them humbly and politely, hang up in a trance. Start with them a couple weeks later, on an unbelievable pay, for an incredible job, where all my talents will be recognised and widely admired, get quickly promoted. By the time I'm 45, I'll rule the world. My husband will be George Clooney (who never could resist a woman with a personality), and I dare say I will be a happy bunny.
Haven't I got it all sorted?
* Reference to a French commercial. Can't translate. Sorry.
** Yes, I have tried to find a job there, and have failed miserably because I have been very consistently unlucky in love, game, and work. I also have a working visa for Australia, would you believe, with a company that so screwed me over that I'm now in writing therapy all over the interweb. Anything else? Oh yeah, and if you happen to know an Aussie pining for European citizenship, send them to me - although why he would be is beyond me.
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