quick check in

Not a huge amount of time to write tonight I’m afraid. I’m on the 9 - 5 shift tomorrow and only home tonight at 9 from the 1 - 9 shift tonight, so have to make every little hour count before I retire at a reasonable hour. Mind you, after the colossal lie on we had this morning I could probably get til Sunday on about 3 hours of sleep.

An uneventful day thus far, not likely to be much more to report before the night is out. Just a bit of dinner and maybe an aul chat.

Yeah, that’s it really. Sorry for being boring but what more can you expect of a Wednesday really?

how long can an hour be?

I got a text at 19:42 to say he’s back in Sligo, I’m off at 21:00, it’s a looooong hour. Just thought I’d let yee know he’s safe and sound and hopefully putting  the beers in the fridge as I type. I sincerely doubt I’ll be posting later, just wanted to let yee know he’s back at last! Enjoy your evening everyone, whatever you get up to

a little trip down memory lane, or Sennaya Ploschad to be precise

I find myself in a restless state of utter boredom tonight. I thought, it being the night before he gets back, I’d be able to extract whatever fun there was to found from a night to myself and just get through it by thinking, only til tomorrow Lou, just til tomorrow.

I’m so bored I could eat my desk. I’ve wandered aimlessly about the net but nothing is catching my attention tonight. I take a swiping glance, register the facts and move on. Nothing is pulling my string tonight.

So I reckon I’ll make my own fun, I’ll stop putting off writing my post. And then I find I have nothing to say.

So I’m back to my old favourite, St. Petersburg. Of course, I’m listening to Zemfira so that explains my being dragged back so frequently tonight. The image which is returning most frequently is the first left turn down the road from the B&B we always stay in, Rand House on Sennaya, even saying the word simultaneously excites and comforts me. The specific area I’m thinking of is directly in front of one of the little kiosks where we would usually get our evening Baltika (or Балтика to give it it’s proper spelling) and fags. Actually, the picture of me with the red scarf at the top of the screen on the right was taken right there. It’s the road we turned onto most days on our wanders, so it’s a pretty good symbol of the start of a good day and the start of a good evening. Let me see if I have a picture for you…

This picture was taken crossing Grivtsova, we usually veered to the left here, to the front of the shops pictured below

The below shot, taken that night, is of the window of the shop we usually got our evening bottle of Baltika from. I love looking at these windows, I love the way everything is displayed with the price, and the pattern it makes is endlessly fascinating for me.

This last one is of a happy Lolly with her bottle of Baltika, first of many that night as I recall

Well, there, that kept me occupied for a while. And seeing as I’m always banging on about the place I suppose sharing a few pictures of what I love so much isn’t such a bad idea either.

And so, to bed…

tired

I’m listening to Joni Mitchell again, ‘Urge for going’, lovely stuff, highly evocative. It’s actually a hits collection I’m listening to these nights. It fits rather nicely with my reflective alone time.

No particularly blog-worthy thoughts circling tonight, today even. Just trying to get through it, which I inevitably did. The landlady hired a gardener to destroy the garden. It’s all hacked to pieces and baldy looking. Me no likey change. In cutting back everything he put out all the little flowers, it’s a big drab green mush now, all twiggy and scattered looking.

Enough whinging.

No, can’t avoid it, I’ve been dancing around this topic the last few days, so out it must pop, not content with filling up me and Bennys conversations this past few weeks, it has to have it’s place in my blog too.

All I can think about is wanting to get out of the job I’m in. All I see on the job sites is the same old crap I’m either not experienced enough for or isn’t any better than what I’m doing now. We keep batting around idea’s for starting our own business but we haven’t the capital to finance it. It has occurred to us to get loans and do a masters, applications are done for his year though. We bat around the idea of going to St. Petersburg but where to store all our stuff? Is it a step too far?

And I’m really getting worn down with this broken record playing in my head. And the feeling of being trapped. And having to constantly prop myself up with positive thinking, repeating the mantra that something will come up.

I know this may sound rather extreme, we’ve only left Dublin three months. But the feeling of not being able to do anything useful with my degree has been there a lot longer. And the stress and lack of fulfillment in the role I’m in doesn’t make staying positive particularly easy either. The exact same goes for Benny.

So, can anyone suggest what a fluent Russian speaker with a Russian and business degree and a English, media and cultural studies graduate should do to get out of this rut?

I spent an hour tonight looking at Masters courses, I’m none the wiser so far. I’m just so very tired of this struggle to know where to turn. I amn’t the first and wont be the last, I know. I recognise how irritating and futile this entry is, but I genuinely didn’t have anything else to say tonight and as the weeks go by it’s getting harder to stop it coming into my writing here. Any advice or suggestions would be greatly appreciated.

satanic super spuds from hell

I am just tucking into my very first ever cup of Indian Chai, and it is exceptionally pleasant. It’s so comforting. Mmm.

And comforting I need tonight, Benny’s gone down to Dublin for three days of training, won’t be back til late Wednesday night. I’ve been miserable since he left, I didn’t think it would hurt as much as it does, but there you go.

I put on Joni Mitchell’s ‘River’, obviously with no intentions of cheering myself up. And it’s decided to play on repeat, how thoughtful of it.

The funniest thing that’s happened today, because I don’t want to dwell on the negative, was my reaction to a box of potatoes that had, shamefully, escaped my attention in a little used press. I have discovered a new phobia, potatoes with sprouts on them make my flesh crawl. And that’s putting it pretty mildly.

I decided to move the offending articles out the back and bag them up for the bin, oh my but how I wish I hadn’t had that bright idea. I tugged at the corner of the box, not wanting to bend down, (not wanting to put my face anywhere near them), but the bottom of the box gave way, splaying the little many-fingered buggers all over the kitchen floor. I squealed and then, the icing on my horror cake, a gigantic fat-arsed jet black spider jumped out of the box and started running for my sandal clad toesies. At which point I squealed an octave higher than one would have thought possible and promptly jumped into the next county.

Upon my return I trapped the spider under a glass and deposited him out the back. This is such a major achievment for me, I cannot begin to tell you. I find it hard to do get up the nerve for this task at the best of times but this time I was doing it with the double shock of being attacked by mutant potato babies and a jumping black arachnid. And the potatoes, not content with looking like the flood from Halo , decided it would be fun to add to my trauma by squeaking their little wizened fingers all down the box as they fell and then popping their little tentacles, one by wretched one, out from under the cover after they’d hit the deck.

I stood looking at them for about ten minutes. All I could think about, apart from whether the spider had left behind a nest of babies of the skin-bubble hatching variety, was whether the icky crawly jobbie I’d found on my t-shirt earlier had somehow emanated from my satanic kitchen press. After I’d removed and squooshed said icky-crawly-jobbie Benny informed me it was a blue bottle larvae. Oh horror of horrors! Was I going to see a whole pulsating mass of them squiggling and oozing forth from between their tentacaly neighbours? What if I couldn’t get up the nerve to pick them up and deposit them out the back? Could I tape down plastic all around them and just not use the kitchen til Benny got back on Wednesday night? Could I go without food that long? Could I go without coffee?

Well, that settled it. I went upstairs and got my big thick gloves from St. Petersburg, rolled up (Benny’s) jumper sleeves, took a huge breath, then another, possibly a third, and attacked the pulsating pile of putrification head on with the aid of a second box, a big plastic bag and the most impressive show of mind over matter I’ve put on all week.

Job done, I rewarded myself with the cup of Chai. My heart is still a little acidy and heavy. My scalp is wriggling. Shudder.

I made myself another cup of Chai there, it’s so dreamy, it’s like Christmas cake tea.

Well I think that’s it guys, I have the water on for a bath, I just polished off a bag of chocolate covered nuts and the rest of the evening shall be dedicated to the purposeless wandering of the interweb which is just about the only thing I can stand to do when I’m missing him.

Take care if each other x

ranticus maximus, or, it’s good to talk

I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed at the power of song, to not only fling you at thirty-thousand miles per second back to the time you listened to it, but to score the seal and let the emotions you didn’t even know you were feeling burst forth. Ah, the dam imagery again. Lordy. Get a new line Lou.

I’m listening to The Foo Fighters, ‘The Best’. My voice cracked while I was roaring out the chorus. I love a good sing, wasn’t expecting a good cry to boot.

And I’m still suffering from on/off writers block. Or am I? I doubt it’s possible to write well and analyse well every day. This one’s going on a good few days now though. I suppose it’s difficult when you write a blog everyday not to fall into the trap of simply repeating yourself…

I’ll just stop myself there and spare you all the whinging. I’m pissed off today, with myself and humanity because I had the misfortune to speak to 45 rude human beings one after the other today. And rather than hammer on about how soul destroying it is to be pinned down while someone pours the hot lava of their fury, lack of education, and frankly, frightening lack of respect for another human being into my ear, I shall just write down a few pointers here for those of you unlucky enough to ever have to deal with a call centre to bear in mind.

1. Do not start a conversation with ‘What is your name’, the person has just said it in their intro, if they haven’t leave it a while, you immediately put them on the defensive by cutting across their greeting and making demands before at least getting through the hello that is customary to the start of every phone call.

2. Call centre agents have to ask irritating questions like ‘can I have an alternative contact number’, they don’t really want to (because they do it all day everyday) but their bonus depends on it and they will be given out to if they don’t. Do not tut and sigh and bark at them when they ask these questions. It is rude and will again, not make the person overly inclined to be helpful towards you.

3. Where possible do not curse at the call centre agent, they will spend the rest of the call trying to get rid of you and not helping you in the slightest bit.

4. Where possible do not ask the call centre agent if they are stupid because you do not understand a clearly laid out invoice, or indeed, the concept of VAT

5. Do not mistake getting what you want for a basic human right.

6. Try to understand that the phrase, ‘I have done everything within my ability to help you on this issue and there really is nothing further I can do for you right now’ (when repeated for the third time) is not an invitation to rephrase your rant for the eight time. Call centre agents generally will try to resolve the problem on the spot if they can (and as quickly as they can), they would prefer not to have you call back, increasing call volumes, and frequently their ’stats’, on which a large percentage of their pay is based, will be effected if they don’t help you.

7. Try to appreciate that the agent is not psychic (and as such if they ask for your name as a contact they mean for you to say it rather than say ‘yeah, my name’) and in general, if they ask you for information they are not doing it for fun, if it was on the screen they really wouldn’t be asking. In the same vein saying ‘It should be on your screen’ will not be interpreted as a helpful contribution to the conversation either.

8. Try to refrain from hanging up on someone who has spent ten minutes trying to help you to the best of their ability, it’s actually quite hurtful and rude.

9. It is also useful to remember that pointing out someones race as an indicator of their ability/intelligence will not incline them to help you either.

10. If English is not your native tongue it is useful to stop the person before they complete a minutes worth of instruction before they get to the end, they will not find this anywhere near as irritating as you saying ‘what’ (and only ‘what’, with no indication of which of the several points raised you find difficult) at the end of their delivery.

11. Being pleasant and polite to a call centre agent will almost always at the very least allow them to concentrate on the problem thus solving it more quickly, and will often mean they are far more willing to go out of their way to help you.

12. Try, as difficult as it is, to remember that they have heard what you are saying nineteen million times before and no amount of extraneous detail is going to facilitate them to undo all of the processes their bosses have put in place. Nor will any amount of shouting, loud sighing, short answers, sarcasm, interuption or pretending not to hear what the person has just said.

13. Remember they are following rules, not their rules, the company’s rules, and they are not the company and constantly repeating ‘YOU did this, YOU said that’ is rude and illogical.

14. You will not be the first or the last to have to wait in a queue to speak to an agent and blasting them out of it for your wait is not going to make it any different. Similarly, if there is a queue it means they have been taking back to back calls and are already stressed out enough without listening to you damn them and their company to hell for your inconvenience.

15. Remember, while you are asking this person whether they have any brains or personality or a degree, that this person knows your address and your bank details, and they may just be as unhinged as you.

Nuff said.

on the articulate body

Benny’s decided he’s going to guest blog his Fianna Fáil story, but on another day. We just took off the big plaster on the largest of the cuts and it was not pleasant. And upon getting home I realised I have my own technicolour ‘area’ to match his many and varied bruises, not so pleasant either. Moving swiftly on…

We got back to one of our favourite hobbies tonight, watching Battlestar, it’s so good to be reacquainted with that old friend again. We have a fair few episodes left in the third season so no spoilers please people

I got to thinking this evening, well, picking up a train of thought that’s been flashing on and off this past few days, about how our bodies move in the spaces around us. I caught myself this evening doing that wonderful unconscious curve of the hand gesture that tucks a packet of breakfast cereal back down into it’s box. It’s all over in an instant, a thoroughly elegant flick and swoop and the bag is secured down, airtight, spider tight, ready for it’s equally graceful and almost instantaneous glide back into it’s spot in the press. I found myself doing it whilst making coffee the other evening as well, this slick, fluid, almost dance like motion between fridge, press, and kettle, it’s a well choreographed routine and I imagine there might be a kind of beauty in it to the impartial observer.

Another movement, not quite so beautiful, but the one that got me to thinking about the whole topic, is the movement I found myself so effortlessly settling back into in the old house in Dublin at the weekend - the seamless opening of the bathroom door, the exact right amount of pressure to budge it from the usually swollen saddle, the sideways glancing dance past it along the radiator (only about two steps), the equally fluid turn and push to close it (always just the right amount to lodge it in that half closed position that means you don’t rattle the floorboards trying to unstick it from the full close over) this done with one hand, while the other readies the trousers for their immanent downward trajectory. All this done with the quick glance to make sure the lid is up (and the consideration of whether it would be prudent to check for insects under the seat, which I resist in a seemingly endless battle with my mild OCD).

It’s tough to break down into words, it all happens within the space of about three or four seconds. But you know what? it was so pleasant to find it still programmed into my body, so pleasant to find the language of the routine still there waiting for my muscles to fold around it once more.

I love these routines, I seem to find ways to maximise efficiency in everything I do, like the computer set up I seem to have gotten down to a fine art too. It reminds me of a pilot or an astronaut preparing their craft for flight. First I bend over to switch on the modem, then I plug the modem in (I never plug something that’s on standby, always afraid of surges), then I use the swivel chair to turn from the modem (without any further bending) to plug in the computer (the modem comes first because the dsl connection takes just longer than the computer turning on to connect properly), then the monitor (because the computer takes longer to turn on than it does) then I hit the button on the speakers and pull in my chair, or do something else in the room to fill the time until it’s ready for me to click into my profile.

Putting it down in words makes it all seem very laboured, but this is the whole point, it isn’t, it’s a reflex action at this point and it’s the quickest possilbe way to get myself surfing. I wonder why I feel the need to conserve energy and time in everything I do? Waiting and time wasting irritate the hell out of me if they’re avoidable, tis just as simple as that. But where did this come from, from what aspect of my personality or past did this habit spring? I shall consult my pillow on the matter.

ouchies

Oh lads, I’m feeling very very sorry for myself today. I made that most fatal of mistakes, I judged the traffic by the traffic lights, not by the drivers, and ended up jamming on the brakes, coming off a curb and really hurting the bits what connect with the handle bars when one jams on the brakes. I’m still in pain now, five hours after said bits connected with said handlebars. I am not a happy bunny.

I can’t concentrate properly because of said ache so I shall leave the imparting of Benny’s story about the politician until later…

tending the wounded

Benny’s unraveling from the weekend downstairs in front of the fire I made us. It’s so good having him back, I’ve fussed and molly-coddled him, and kissed and petted him into a complete state of mush, which is where he needs to be right now. The aches and pains from the fall on the boat, and the days of travelling on the back of the motorbike, are only really starting to work their way to the surface now, the adrenaline having finally given way to the fatigue. As such I’m afraid my attentions are reserved for his care and comfort right now and not for blogging so this shall be a short entry.

In fact, upon reflection, I’m actually going to go back down and look after him right now. I have a story to tell you about an encounter he had with a Fianna Fáil election runner in the shop today but I’ll try and get that down in work tomorrow morning. Nighty nite all, be good to each other

happy me

Just in case anyone might have been worried, he got home safe yesterday evening. Missing a few chunks of skin and with a very sore knee from the rough crossing over (where himself and five other lads got thrown down the stairs),as high as a kite, and not a little tired. I cannot explain to you the relief of having him back. Must dash, there’s a queue of people waiting to scream at me.