So, today someone I have known for YEARS invited me to join "We Want Tap" on Facebook (which, by the way, is the most fantastic thing ever invented. I actually have a date on Saturday with someone I used to work with who I haven't seen for about 5 years). At first I thought it was going to be some sort of Downing Street petition to put Fred Astaire and Jimmy Slyde back on the map, but then I realised it is an ACTUAL MOVEMENT to get people to drink tap water over bottled water. Seeing as the UK has some of the world's most clean/pure drinking water in the world, this makes total sense. I'm just kicking myself that I didn't market this - I always drink tap water!
Anyhow, "We Want Tap" is a great way to get the British (and, hopefully, worldwide) public to realise that our water is plenty good enough to drink and that it'll probably mean that a few less birds get caught up in all the plastic bottles we have floating around. And it's got to be better on the wallet, seeing as a litre of bottled mineral water costs more than a litre of gasoline. Try it!
Thursday 22 May 2008
Monday 12 May 2008
Thursday 1 May 2008
Ho-hum...
Do you think Capitalists would be allowed to do this in other countries? (Photos taken on the street right outside my office).
At least there was someone trying to make the best of an otherwise disturbing situation:
At least there was someone trying to make the best of an otherwise disturbing situation:
Wednesday 9 April 2008
Brussels - Part II
On the second day I did more walking around the center and less hiking to see buildings miles away.
I took this picture, because he looks strangely like Schnarf:
See?
This guy owned a fantastic Belgian chocolate shop. He made all his own truffles and stuff...
And this shop sold cookies. The mannequin in the window was great!
I did do some trekking out of the city to see the Basilique, (after having a Belgian waffle with melted dark chocolate). It was really grey, so the photos aren't too good, but this building was absolutely magnificent. I had to make do with taking photos from the outside only - there was a da Vinci exhibition inside so cameras were verboten, and in the church part there was a funeral. I don't think they would have appreciated me barging in to snap the architecture.
This, I found hilarious! A picture of the Mannekin Pis - do not pee in the garden...
By this time, my Eurostar train was about 2 hours from leaving and I still had to collect my bags from the hotel and make my way to the Midi, so I had to leave.
Brussels is a beautiful city, and I'd recommend it to everyone who travels to Europe.
I took this picture, because he looks strangely like Schnarf:
See?
This guy owned a fantastic Belgian chocolate shop. He made all his own truffles and stuff...
And this shop sold cookies. The mannequin in the window was great!
I did do some trekking out of the city to see the Basilique, (after having a Belgian waffle with melted dark chocolate). It was really grey, so the photos aren't too good, but this building was absolutely magnificent. I had to make do with taking photos from the outside only - there was a da Vinci exhibition inside so cameras were verboten, and in the church part there was a funeral. I don't think they would have appreciated me barging in to snap the architecture.
This, I found hilarious! A picture of the Mannekin Pis - do not pee in the garden...
By this time, my Eurostar train was about 2 hours from leaving and I still had to collect my bags from the hotel and make my way to the Midi, so I had to leave.Brussels is a beautiful city, and I'd recommend it to everyone who travels to Europe.
Monday 7 April 2008
Brussels - Part I
So, I decided to go to Brussels at the last minute. I was in Amsterdam and then Paris for work, and then got on a train on Friday for some chocolate, waffles and mussels. No, I didn't go entirely for good food, but I did partake in the eating of bad things and drinking of Belgian beer while I cleared my head for an entire 27 hours.
I spent most of Friday morning wandering around the Grand Place, people-watching and taking pictures.
I wandered up side alleys and different streets, and took a couple of photos on my way to the Manneken Pis.
Then I came across a busker who looked like Santa - he had a beautiful electro-acoustic and was singing John Denver, Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival and others. He was fantastic and drew the biggest crowd than any other street entertainer I saw the whole time I was there.
I took a walk out to the Cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudule. It was quite a trek, but it was the most beautiful cathedral I've seen in a long time. I went down to the crypt to see what the original church was like, before looking around the rest of the building.
Then I headed through the Parc du Bruxelle over to the Palace de la Nation - it must be pretty important, because you're not allowed inside - there's a lot of guarded space between the road where tourists can view the building, and the entrance.
By this time I'd been walking for about 4 hours and had covered about 16 miles. I headed back in to the center where I found the St. Hubert shopping gallery and had a beer, before heading back to the hotel for a shower before finding somewhere for dinner.
I spent most of Friday morning wandering around the Grand Place, people-watching and taking pictures.
I wandered up side alleys and different streets, and took a couple of photos on my way to the Manneken Pis.
Then I came across a busker who looked like Santa - he had a beautiful electro-acoustic and was singing John Denver, Johnny Cash, Creedence Clearwater Revival and others. He was fantastic and drew the biggest crowd than any other street entertainer I saw the whole time I was there.
I took a walk out to the Cathedral of Saint Michael and Saint Gudule. It was quite a trek, but it was the most beautiful cathedral I've seen in a long time. I went down to the crypt to see what the original church was like, before looking around the rest of the building.
Then I headed through the Parc du Bruxelle over to the Palace de la Nation - it must be pretty important, because you're not allowed inside - there's a lot of guarded space between the road where tourists can view the building, and the entrance.
By this time I'd been walking for about 4 hours and had covered about 16 miles. I headed back in to the center where I found the St. Hubert shopping gallery and had a beer, before heading back to the hotel for a shower before finding somewhere for dinner.
Wednesday 26 March 2008
Open Letter to Spring
Yo, dude, 'sup?
Where you at? It's coming toward the end of the financial year and there is no sign of you at all. Yeah, you sprouted a few daffodils and even a crocus here and there, but that's all I've seen of you since last year. Winter has been here long enough and he's outstayed his welcome BIG TIME. Wet-footprints-trailed-through-the-house-muddy-shoes-on-the-coffee-table-stinking-smell-of-damp kind of overstay. It's about time you moved back in and kicked this snotty, spiky little troll out. Like yesterday.
Thank you muchly,
Little Sausage
Where you at? It's coming toward the end of the financial year and there is no sign of you at all. Yeah, you sprouted a few daffodils and even a crocus here and there, but that's all I've seen of you since last year. Winter has been here long enough and he's outstayed his welcome BIG TIME. Wet-footprints-trailed-through-the-house-muddy-shoes-on-the-coffee-table-stinking-smell-of-damp kind of overstay. It's about time you moved back in and kicked this snotty, spiky little troll out. Like yesterday.
Thank you muchly,
Little Sausage
Shopping
Shopping is great. Not only do you get to buy things (!) but it's a great excuse to people-watch. I usually stop and take stock in a coffee shop whose windows face on to the street. Last Saturday I went shopping and all I wanted was a belt. I wandered in and out of many shops looking for just the right belt and as I was one shop away from giving up, I was stopped by a (really cute) guy who waved a leaflet at me, and asked me to attend some rap/hip-hop/RnB evening at the local pentecostal church. I said no, it's not really my thing, thank you very much, and explained how, even though I had been brought up as a Catholic, in a Catholic family, in a Catholic country, the faith I had as a child was lost when my father died. We chatted, outside on the high street, for what seemed like ages - it was about -2o
I don't really remember what we talked about, but I know that I was able to open up to this complete stranger more than I have ever opened up to anyone before, and when I left I felt as if a great weight had been lifted. Strange. As much as it pained me, I had to go before all the shops closed. We exchanged cards and he called me on Easter Sunday, inviting me out the following weekend. That's this weekend, as in, 3 days from now. And I'm stressing about what to wear. Lame.
I don't really remember what we talked about, but I know that I was able to open up to this complete stranger more than I have ever opened up to anyone before, and when I left I felt as if a great weight had been lifted. Strange. As much as it pained me, I had to go before all the shops closed. We exchanged cards and he called me on Easter Sunday, inviting me out the following weekend. That's this weekend, as in, 3 days from now. And I'm stressing about what to wear. Lame.
Thursday 20 March 2008
The Bard of Downing Street
It seems there is a poet amongst them...
There is a hunt on for an elusive, Blairite poet who wrote this fabulous little ditty:
At Downing Street upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't Blair.
He wasn't Blair again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away.
John Hutton was accused of writing the piece by his Shadow, Alan Duncan who said it could only have been one person". John Hutton rebuked the claim, saying that he would "write better poetry than that." I think John Hutton was right to deny that he had anything to do with the poem. If he had been feeling creative, the outcome would probably have been more like:
Oh, Mr Brown, no-one likes you!
(Unless you're Muslim, Chinese or Hindu).
Please disappear, without a trace
Before this country you utterly disgrace.
There is a hunt on for an elusive, Blairite poet who wrote this fabulous little ditty:
At Downing Street upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn't Blair.
He wasn't Blair again today,
Oh how I wish he'd go away.
John Hutton was accused of writing the piece by his Shadow, Alan Duncan who said it could only have been one person". John Hutton rebuked the claim, saying that he would "write better poetry than that." I think John Hutton was right to deny that he had anything to do with the poem. If he had been feeling creative, the outcome would probably have been more like:
Oh, Mr Brown, no-one likes you!
(Unless you're Muslim, Chinese or Hindu).
Please disappear, without a trace
Before this country you utterly disgrace.
Why I hate the NHS
I know that there are people throughout the world are green with envy that the British Public has a National Health Service that is "free". "You mean you don't have to pay when you have to go to hospital?" No. "You don't need medical insurance? And how about co-payments?" No, theoretically we don't need medical insurance and no, no co-payments.
So, here's a bit of history: The NHS, unveiled by Aneurin Bevan in the summer of 1948 was, pretty much, what Labour had promised the Brits in their bid to oust Churchill's Conservative government. And it worked. Everything was absolutely free, until the NHS ran out of money three years later and people had to pay for prescriptions, and half the cost of any dental work and optical aids. As of April 1. this year, the prescription charge is £7.10 in England, compared to Scotland where it is £5 and Wales where it is free... this is the start of the disparity.
My neighbour is a lovely lady. About three years ago she started suffering from terrible, excruciating abdominal pains. Her GP sent her away with the advice that she should take paracetamol, and a week later the pain was so intense that she had to go to hospital. In the Emergency Department they did an x-ray and a colonoscopy which showed nothing. It was not until over a year later that she was finally diagnosed with a rare for of bowel cancer that grows on the outer wall of the bowel. Operating was not possible because the tumour was attached to major blood vessels, and after many months of chemo- and radiotherapy at the Royal Marsden in Fulham, (a specialist cancer hospital) it had gone. Tri-monthly checks for the last year or so have all been clear. Until last week. In the three months since her last appointment, the cancer is back, more aggressive than ever and is approximately three inches in diameter. And the first thing the hospital said to her? "Now we need to send off the paper work to see if your NHS Trust will fund your treatment." That's right... if our local NHS Trust decides that she is too old, (she's nearly 60, I think) or that it is not cost effective (because this is the second time she has had this cancer) or even because that particular trust has spent all of the money it had allocated to the treatment of cancer (because they obviously do not know how to spend money effectively) then she will probably die. This is after she has been paying in to the NHS for the last 43 years. It is emphatically NOT free. In fact, it is compulsory to pay for it, with no guarantee that you will be given medical help when you need it most. Had she paid that money in to a private medical insurance policy instead, there would be no question over her treatment.
My local NHS Trust has been terrible for as long as I can remember. In 1997 my father was admitted after being told he was riddled with incurable cancer. It had started in his kidneys and by the time he was diagnosed it was in his bowel, his lungs and had eaten through some of his ribs. He spent some time at home because he hated the hospital, and yet was refused an oxygen canister to take with him. I was sent away to boarding school so that I didn't have to see him so sick. My brothers, fortunately, were too young to remember. I was not allowed home on the exeats, and instead went to stay with my grandmother. My father just didn't want me to see him looking so sick. I remember how this big, strong man withered away to almost nothing, his arms and legs so thin and frail that he was unable to stand or hold himself up. In hospital he started to develop terrible bedsores which got infected. My mother spent every moment at the hospital, bathing him, turning him over, making sure his bed clothes were clean, ensuring that he took his medication and ate when he was able. All things that the hospital staff should have been doing, but weren't.
In September 1997, when my brother was old enough, he was sent to school with me. My father had developed a huge abscess, the size of about four golf balls, on his back. Whatever it was, meant that his left lung could not inflate, he was unable to lie on his back and he was in terrible pain. Tests were done, and it was discovered that he had contracted MRSA. This surprised no-one - the hospital was filthy, God only knows when the last time was that the floors had been mopped; my mother had to clean dried blood from the bed, left by a previous patient. She's sure she never once saw the medical staff washing their hands. On October 28, 2007, my father died in my mother's arms. It was the MRSA in the end, although had it been up to the cancer he may have only had another month.
My point is this: the NHS may look, to an outsider, a service that is so fantastic and should not be knocked. But I have experienced just how fatally flawed it is, and the damage that a badly run health service can do. Now, people are so desperate that they are paying for medical insurance on top of paying for the NHS - although it provides sub-standard health care, no tax payer can opt out of funding it, yet the Trusts are allowed to pick and choose who they treat.
It makes you proud to be British.
So, here's a bit of history: The NHS, unveiled by Aneurin Bevan in the summer of 1948 was, pretty much, what Labour had promised the Brits in their bid to oust Churchill's Conservative government. And it worked. Everything was absolutely free, until the NHS ran out of money three years later and people had to pay for prescriptions, and half the cost of any dental work and optical aids. As of April 1. this year, the prescription charge is £7.10 in England, compared to Scotland where it is £5 and Wales where it is free... this is the start of the disparity.
My neighbour is a lovely lady. About three years ago she started suffering from terrible, excruciating abdominal pains. Her GP sent her away with the advice that she should take paracetamol, and a week later the pain was so intense that she had to go to hospital. In the Emergency Department they did an x-ray and a colonoscopy which showed nothing. It was not until over a year later that she was finally diagnosed with a rare for of bowel cancer that grows on the outer wall of the bowel. Operating was not possible because the tumour was attached to major blood vessels, and after many months of chemo- and radiotherapy at the Royal Marsden in Fulham, (a specialist cancer hospital) it had gone. Tri-monthly checks for the last year or so have all been clear. Until last week. In the three months since her last appointment, the cancer is back, more aggressive than ever and is approximately three inches in diameter. And the first thing the hospital said to her? "Now we need to send off the paper work to see if your NHS Trust will fund your treatment." That's right... if our local NHS Trust decides that she is too old, (she's nearly 60, I think) or that it is not cost effective (because this is the second time she has had this cancer) or even because that particular trust has spent all of the money it had allocated to the treatment of cancer (because they obviously do not know how to spend money effectively) then she will probably die. This is after she has been paying in to the NHS for the last 43 years. It is emphatically NOT free. In fact, it is compulsory to pay for it, with no guarantee that you will be given medical help when you need it most. Had she paid that money in to a private medical insurance policy instead, there would be no question over her treatment.
My local NHS Trust has been terrible for as long as I can remember. In 1997 my father was admitted after being told he was riddled with incurable cancer. It had started in his kidneys and by the time he was diagnosed it was in his bowel, his lungs and had eaten through some of his ribs. He spent some time at home because he hated the hospital, and yet was refused an oxygen canister to take with him. I was sent away to boarding school so that I didn't have to see him so sick. My brothers, fortunately, were too young to remember. I was not allowed home on the exeats, and instead went to stay with my grandmother. My father just didn't want me to see him looking so sick. I remember how this big, strong man withered away to almost nothing, his arms and legs so thin and frail that he was unable to stand or hold himself up. In hospital he started to develop terrible bedsores which got infected. My mother spent every moment at the hospital, bathing him, turning him over, making sure his bed clothes were clean, ensuring that he took his medication and ate when he was able. All things that the hospital staff should have been doing, but weren't.
In September 1997, when my brother was old enough, he was sent to school with me. My father had developed a huge abscess, the size of about four golf balls, on his back. Whatever it was, meant that his left lung could not inflate, he was unable to lie on his back and he was in terrible pain. Tests were done, and it was discovered that he had contracted MRSA. This surprised no-one - the hospital was filthy, God only knows when the last time was that the floors had been mopped; my mother had to clean dried blood from the bed, left by a previous patient. She's sure she never once saw the medical staff washing their hands. On October 28, 2007, my father died in my mother's arms. It was the MRSA in the end, although had it been up to the cancer he may have only had another month.
My point is this: the NHS may look, to an outsider, a service that is so fantastic and should not be knocked. But I have experienced just how fatally flawed it is, and the damage that a badly run health service can do. Now, people are so desperate that they are paying for medical insurance on top of paying for the NHS - although it provides sub-standard health care, no tax payer can opt out of funding it, yet the Trusts are allowed to pick and choose who they treat.
It makes you proud to be British.
Thursday 13 March 2008
Hmmm...
How very interesting...
Darling, or Badger Face, as he is so lovingly called, has not only used his first ever budget to tell us that we can't drink, smoke or drive, but he is also screwing over the whiskey industry with no extra pennies going in to the Treasury purse. In fact, the tax is thought to to bring in £2.3bn over the next 2 years, the same as it did in the period 2006-7 (Official Budget Report, (which, just out of interest, is called "Stability and Opportunity". Ha! Ha!) page 187). I don't know about you, but this makes no sense to me. It obviously made no sense to the spokesman for the Treasury, either:
"We are dealing in billions here," he said. "Figures are being lost in the roundings. But we don't have anything more specific right now – these are all estimates."
(I would have liveblogged the Budget, but I knew it would be much better portrayed here and here.)
Alistair, dear, you fucked up the DWP, and then the DfT. What the heck do you know about anything monetary?
But, you know what pissed me off even more than the Budget itself? During Cameron's comeback when he stated that Labour have given Britain the legacy of having the highest tax burden in history, that dingleberry, Ed Balls, had the gaul to say "so what?" So what? I suppose, when you claim over £300,000 in allowances each year, it doesn't really matter.
Darling, or Badger Face, as he is so lovingly called, has not only used his first ever budget to tell us that we can't drink, smoke or drive, but he is also screwing over the whiskey industry with no extra pennies going in to the Treasury purse. In fact, the tax is thought to to bring in £2.3bn over the next 2 years, the same as it did in the period 2006-7 (Official Budget Report, (which, just out of interest, is called "Stability and Opportunity". Ha! Ha!) page 187). I don't know about you, but this makes no sense to me. It obviously made no sense to the spokesman for the Treasury, either:
"We are dealing in billions here," he said. "Figures are being lost in the roundings. But we don't have anything more specific right now – these are all estimates."
(I would have liveblogged the Budget, but I knew it would be much better portrayed here and here.)
Alistair, dear, you fucked up the DWP, and then the DfT. What the heck do you know about anything monetary?
But, you know what pissed me off even more than the Budget itself? During Cameron's comeback when he stated that Labour have given Britain the legacy of having the highest tax burden in history, that dingleberry, Ed Balls, had the gaul to say "so what?" So what? I suppose, when you claim over £300,000 in allowances each year, it doesn't really matter.
Wednesday 12 March 2008
The one where I seem to have clawed my way out...
Forgive me Internets, for I have sinned. It has been approximately 3 months since my last confession.
The thing about a journal, is that it should be your one outlet. Your vent. I seem to have been unable to do any venting at all recently. Things happen, and then more and more things happen, piling upon each other, until you end up unable to move, due to the enormity of all these 'things' resting precariously on your shoulders. Something has got to give. And it did. I'm just not sure what it was.
Anyhow, it seems as if I'm back.
Last weekend I took the dogs out and took some photos. The creatures are rather photogenic. I recently bought and installed a child stair gate for the living room doorway. The gate closes when the dogs are in there, (yes, they have access to the garden and yes they always have plenty of water) and voila! My mail isn't chewed to pieces! People don't run away from the house because HRH isn't sitting by the front door barking when the doorbell is rung! I can come in to the house and not get covered in dog hair!
I have started tutoring two kids on a Saturday. They are the children of two of my mother's old work colleagues, and both need help with their reading/writing and preparation for English GCSE. The youngest lad, Jon, I see for an hour at 9am. He is an absolute joy - so desperate to learn. He is two years away from his big public exams, and it seems we have plenty of time to bring him up to scratch, and then some. Philip is only 2 months away from the start of his exams. He is lazy. He's very bright, but this laxity that has been cultured by the education system. It is so disappointing. Both of these boys have been let down so fundamentally by their schools and, at times, it is excruciating to watch. Philip's English teacher at school sounds absolutely horrendous. The class is given past papers, to help them prepare for the exams, as homework. Sounds good, no? But what is the point of setting that work if, when only four of the class have taken the time to do it so, you just say, "ok, here is the model answer, now do it for homework again and I'll collect it when everyone has completed it"? I was absolutely horrified. We are working so hard, going through past papers and the poetry he needs to know for the exams, and it just seems to be completely undermined. Is it any wonder kids get so disillusioned with school and education that they are, quite literally, counting down the days until they can leave?
A very old family friend from Argentina (who currently lives in Atlanta) is coming to stay for a couple of days next week, so I have a lot of cleaning to do. A lot. The dogs are moulting something chronic, so I think it's time to fork out for a Dyson.
The thing about a journal, is that it should be your one outlet. Your vent. I seem to have been unable to do any venting at all recently. Things happen, and then more and more things happen, piling upon each other, until you end up unable to move, due to the enormity of all these 'things' resting precariously on your shoulders. Something has got to give. And it did. I'm just not sure what it was.
Anyhow, it seems as if I'm back.
Last weekend I took the dogs out and took some photos. The creatures are rather photogenic. I recently bought and installed a child stair gate for the living room doorway. The gate closes when the dogs are in there, (yes, they have access to the garden and yes they always have plenty of water) and voila! My mail isn't chewed to pieces! People don't run away from the house because HRH isn't sitting by the front door barking when the doorbell is rung! I can come in to the house and not get covered in dog hair!
I have started tutoring two kids on a Saturday. They are the children of two of my mother's old work colleagues, and both need help with their reading/writing and preparation for English GCSE. The youngest lad, Jon, I see for an hour at 9am. He is an absolute joy - so desperate to learn. He is two years away from his big public exams, and it seems we have plenty of time to bring him up to scratch, and then some. Philip is only 2 months away from the start of his exams. He is lazy. He's very bright, but this laxity that has been cultured by the education system. It is so disappointing. Both of these boys have been let down so fundamentally by their schools and, at times, it is excruciating to watch. Philip's English teacher at school sounds absolutely horrendous. The class is given past papers, to help them prepare for the exams, as homework. Sounds good, no? But what is the point of setting that work if, when only four of the class have taken the time to do it so, you just say, "ok, here is the model answer, now do it for homework again and I'll collect it when everyone has completed it"? I was absolutely horrified. We are working so hard, going through past papers and the poetry he needs to know for the exams, and it just seems to be completely undermined. Is it any wonder kids get so disillusioned with school and education that they are, quite literally, counting down the days until they can leave?
A very old family friend from Argentina (who currently lives in Atlanta) is coming to stay for a couple of days next week, so I have a lot of cleaning to do. A lot. The dogs are moulting something chronic, so I think it's time to fork out for a Dyson.
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