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caldrail

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Blog Entries posted by caldrail

  1. caldrail
    Now I know I'm getting old. How do I know? Well sit down comfortably and I'll begin.
     
    Exhibit A is a pretty ordinary computer printer, an cream coloured plastic box with a couple of slots and a mind of its own. Even when plugged in, it sits there resolutely doing nothing. Somewhere on the featureless surface of the box is a button that brings this reluctant technological wonder to life.
     
    Somewhere...
     
    I know there's a 'start' button on this thing...
     
    For a moment, I nearly resorted to reading the manual. If anything comes close to a rejection of honourable manhood, reading the manual is definitely right there like getting caight in private with a centrefold and a test tube. Which of course I know nothing about.
     
    Can we get on with the story, please?
     
    Okay, my search for the 'start' button didn't go unnoticed. One by one the other males in the office wandered over and started poking and pointing in an oddly competitive effort to be first to uncover the arcane means by which my plastic friend reacts to external stimuli.
     
    Eureka! I found it! Yes! Nonetheless my clumsy and ineffectual attempts at utilising conumser electrical goods isn't something I'm used to. There was a time that no technological device was beyond my enquiring mind. You know what I'm talking about.
     
    It's a bit worrying because at this rate I'll be unable to change channels on my television in ten years time. I might be stuck watching the shopping channels for the rest of my life, helpless to find alternative and intelligent viewing. No wonder peope become vegetables in old age.
     
    More About The Letter
    Having been threatened with having my money stopped, I set about putting the world to rights. I can't run faster than a speeding locomotive or leap tall buildings in a single bound, so maybe wearing underpants outside my trousers isn't such a good idea. However, an injustice is in danger of being perpetrated, so Caldrailman is on the case.
     
    It turns out that one vacancy given to me has been listed as "Not Applied For". Nonsense. I remember filling in their application form and handing it to the lady at the front desk to be sent off. I have an email from the employer apologising for rejecting the application and explaining the vacancy had aleady been filled.
     
    My grim determination must have been obvious. Even the security guard thought twice about challenging me as I strode past him, smouldering like a steam engine. Even the office boss glanced at me and made a rapid retreat.
     
    There you go. Technology to the rescue. My emails reveal my evidence. Vacancy applied for. Now pay up please and stop demotivating me with threats of poverty.
  2. caldrail
    Miss L isn't speaking to me today. The enormity of the situation is soul-crushing. How can I go through life without Miss L's insightful commentary? I have become a lesser human being, relegated to the bottom league of social undesirables on slave wages. Plus I get attacked occcaisionally by rubber bands and rubbish thrown over the racks. Battered and bruised.
     
    In order to restore my happiness, and indeed, my general sanity, the department store issued me with a high-vis jacket. For health and safety naturally. So far I haven't observed any particular threat to my well being other than Miss L's missiles (ho ho ho) and considering that the company uniform as worn by permanent staff renders them totally invisible in the darkened enviroment of the top floor, I find that a little odd. Personally, I have a suspicion that the managers want to see where I am at any givern moment. KS swears his high-vis glows in the dark. It does. It really does.
     
    A Man Called Boris
    As often happens with manual labouring I felt the urge to display my individuality today. It's our way of beating shop floor communism. So on the back of my high-vis I wrote in big black marker pen letters BORIS. That way everyboidy knows it's me and not someone else. Don't know why, they just will.
     
    There's one thing that worries me. All my workmates have been hysterically embarrased by my new nickname. Why? What's embarrasing about being a BORIS? They bet me I wouldn't walk through the shopping centre at lunch. They refused to believe I consider walking down the local high street proudly bearing my name on the back of my high-vis.
     
    But I did. And you know what? There was nothing to fear. In fact, the only reaction seemed to come from a group of lads of eastern european extraction who were audibly amused by the slogan. You see? You don't need to be the Son of God to spread happiness in this world. Let me explain...
     
    Forgiveness Of The Week
    Miss L has forgiven me. I can now go home with such deep inner joy that the poor lady who attempted to hand me one of those Jesus pamphlets was pushed aside. Who needs divine forgiveness when Miss L can do that for real?
     
    "We've got a lovely message" She called after me. Yeah? Like what? Jesus loves me? I mean I've been with some boring girlfriends in my time but necrophilia isn't my style thank you very much, and whilst we're on the subject, there is such a thing as being a bit too far out on the feminine side.
     
    Come to think of it, Christians always try to make people miserable. That way they can claim that life will be so much better when you sign up. Except it isn't, because all you do is surrender individuality again. Well, I'm too happy to worry about Jesus and his droids today, so I'll ignore the well meaning but hopelessly blinkered church communist like everyone else is.
     
    After all, I'm a BORIS.
  3. caldrail

    The Joy of Flight

    By caldrail,

    Looking out the window this morning I see a vista of clear blue sky. After yesterdays squalls and blustery winds it's a welcome change. Years ago, on a day like this, I would phone the flying club and ask if there was an available aeroplane. There is? Brilliant, I'll be there in an hour.
     
    There wasn't much to it. I arrive, park up, and pop by the control tower to check for weather information. Oh yes. You never take british weather for granted. It's suprised me more than once. Also there was the endless notices to airmen, photocopied lists of do's and don'ts which might apply to flights in my area. Thruxton was unusual in that they bothered to map out the directives on the wall, so that you didn't have read through page after page of dull government agency text. Only the relevant ones for my flight were of any interest.
     
    That done, it was down to the office to sign out my reserved aeroplane. Stroll across the race track (I only had to dash across to avoid a racing car once), and toward the gate to the infield.
     
    On one occaision a kit car was parked out there and I gave it a casual perusal as I past by. The owner was not a tolerant man. I heard a very loud and abrupt "HEY!" to warn me that proximity to his beloved creation was going to end in something very inconvenient. I was only looking. Good grief, if you drive an unusual car, surely you expect a certain amount of interest from passers-by? Still, I don't blame him for being protective.
     
    Now I cross the grass apron amongst the ranks of stationary aircraft. Most are club aeroplanes, small two seater american trainers, such as the Piper Tomahawk I'd booked. To be honest, whilst they flew well enough and were the cheapest available, they were quite dull machines. I much preferred the rare Beagle Pup when I got the chance. Now that was a suprisingly spirited aeroplane, a definite favourite of mine.
     
    On that day I hadn't the choice. Approaching the aeroplane on a warm day provides a sense of anticipation. There's a host of things you need to see to before you take off, so I set about stowing my bag, doing a walk-around to check the aircraft exterior for function and condition, then at last climb in and set about my pre-flight checks.
     
    The heat! If you've never sat in an idle light aircraft in the sun, my advice is don't unless you have to. Those large curves of plexiglass trap all the sunshine and boy oh boy is it warm in there! I always used to ask my passenger to hold a door open when I was taxiing, to get some propellor draft into the cockpit. But today I'm flying alone. So I have to put up with it.
     
    Well, everything seems to be working, and I have enough fuel for my intended hour of local flying, aimlessly enjoying the that sincere pleasure of being up there. Starting the engine is a bit of an art. Some engines fire up eagerly, others are sullenly stubborn, and all require a little coaxing with a number of levers and plungers designed in the 1920's.
     
    Usually there was no problem. With a loud shout to warn anyone lurking near the propellor out of sight, the engine fires up and the twin blades vanish into a circular blur. Aircraft are noisty little things. Just as well my headphones ward off the worst of it. Without them, you end up battered by the insistent roar.
     
    The normal routine is to radio the tower and inform them of my intentions. They pretty well know what I'm up to, and the clipped reply sounds very bored of the same old information. A little odd that. There's no-one else out here. I have the field to myself. A few years ago this field was buzzing and communication a frantic experience. Now we're all getting a bit lazy as the economy, regulations, and other reasons witherdown the activity I expect at Thruxton.
     
    With the brakes off the Tomahawk accelerates readily. Turn using the rudder, avoid fast taxying despite the impatience of an intruder to my little world, a larger Robin four seater, whose brash pilot clearly has better things to do than wait politely for me to trundle out, and I make my way to the far side of the field and the appropriate end of the runway.
     
    My rival asks for permission to turn off the taxiway and rush down the runway to take off first. To be honest, everyone, including me, are keen to let him. There's a sense in flying that rushing around is bad for you. It probably is, but he roars away and leaves me to bumble along the grass in peace.
     
    At the runway end, time for those last vital checks. Satisified everything is working the way aeronautical science demands, I radio the tower again and announce my departure. To be honest, although the tower is termed an 'advice service' only, he's in charge when it comes to traffic around the field. Not only politeness, it's good practice. But there's no problem, no-one around to obstruct my take-off, and he lets me go.
     
    Turning on the runway is always an odd experience. So much wider than you expect. Thruxton is an olsd WW2 airfield, where P47's and glider tugs operated from in support of D-Day, but the runway is in fact only a portion of what it used to be. The other end is now the concrete part of the apron by the tower.
     
    Line up on the centreline. A quick mental check that everything is in order. That runway disappears into the distance, but trust me, it's not as long as it looks. I confess, this is the moment I feel the thrill. Push the throttle lever forward, all the way, and that rumble you'd gotten used to this last ten minutes erupts into an angry bellow as you sense that propellor turning ever faster.
     
    Quickly the Tomahawk gains speed. They don't take off as readily as Cessna's, so a little back pressure on the yoke is called for, and in any case, it's good practice to keep the weight off that nosewheel. The aeroplane wants to veer. The rudder feels sensitive and keeping the aeroplane straight is occupying my attention. You can feel a relentless increase in speed. At the same time it feels impressively rapid yet agonisingly slow.
     
    A new sensation appears. The aeroplane is wallowing just a little, feeling lighter, and the pit of your stomach registers that first hesitant rise as the wheels begin to lose their grip on the runway. We're flying! With the speed increasing more rapidly, ease back the yoke, adopt the climb attitude, and away she goes.
     
    The ground is falling away.I would enjoy this a lot more if I didn't have to stay alert for the possibility of engine problems. The take-off is the most safety-critical part of the flight. Despite my wariness, there's no problem, and the little plane gains height above southern England lazily, not coping so easily with the thinner warm air outside. The draughty cockpit feels cooler, comfortable, and now I must deal with the protocol of flying near the ground within an airfield's territory, trimming and raising flaps, looking about for other aeroplanes, keeping to the circuit, and announcing my departure from the area.
     
    Strictly speaking, I should change radio frequencies and tell someone else what I'm up to. The miltary airfield down the road for instance, who control the airspace around Thruxton. Truth is I don't want to. Although the air is a little hazy, perhaps a little bumpy as I fly through thermals, it just feels great to be up here alone for a while at the controls of this obedient little machine.
     
    Oh yes. That was why I flew.
     
    More On How It Was
    There's a book at the library which I've leafed through this morning. Probably the reason why I'm waxing lyrical about flying. It's a collection of reminiscenses of World War One veterans, flyers with the RFC and RNAS. Now of course they were flying in wartime, in aeroplames made of very combustible material, without parachutes, in aeroplanes that were barely more capable than the first to fly ever.
     
    You know what? For all the danger, I notice that they all enjoyed it too.
  4. caldrail
    This morning was for the first time in weeks a typical Swindon day. Uneven grey clouds obscure the sky and the ground is damp from the rain of the early hours. There's a distinct smell that arises at times like this, a sort of grassy odour amplified by wet vegetation.
     
    The alleyway past the old college site remains as unloved as ever. It never ceases to amaze me where this rubbish comes from. On a regular basis piles of discarded clothes appear, crumpled and dirty, often with a soiled mttress left in the way of vehicular access. Further along th last remnants of a dead piano are rotting. Beside that, obstructing the cinder path that winds along the grassy tufts between the fences and brick walls either side, I see the remains of a bed. A tumble of rusty springs and broken wooden framing. With spring arriving, the verges of this path will soon be smothered by nettles, brambles, and horsetails, a sort of slum area for weeds to thrive.
     
    A Tycoon Is Not Just For Christmas
    I see in the news that the super-rich among us are getting wealthy again after the depradations of the recession. Unfortunately thanks to the connivances of the council and the Department of Work and Pensions, that doesn't include me, as I'm now engaged in a life or death struggle to prove I'm in receipt of Jobseekers Allowance and thus claim enough Housing Benefit to remain with a roof over my head. If you detect a small chip on my shoulder right now, be aware, it's becoming rather larger.
     
    In fairness it may well be anonymous members of the public who feel it is their public duty to rat on dole cheats. For those not aware, a dole cheat is smeone who earns money for work and still claims the benefits for being unemployed. There's certainly plenty of them out there, I just wish the public would realise that not all dole claimants are drug using work shy political radicals with Save The Gay Whales Planet tee shirts and woolly hats. Very sorry I replaced my ailing keyboard with another but that money did come out of my savings you know - and incidentially, so did the money to purchase my poor old Eunos convertible, which languishes on an off-road notification permanently. It seems dole claimants are not allowed to enjoy life. We are, by definition, undesirables whose lives must become poverty stricken prison sentences so the working population can sleep safe in the beds in the knowledge they did the right thing.
     
    Remember - A tycoon is not just for christmas.
  5. caldrail

    The Lad's Still Keen

    By caldrail,

    So where was I at 09:25 this morning? Bet you can't guess... Oh, ok, you can. And you're right I was, waiting for the security guard to open the doors.
     
    This morning the security guard began opening the doors, beginning with the coffee bar. A certain young man determined to be first up the stairs, brushed past and rushed inside, making his way around the back of the stairwell. Unfortunately on this occaision, he hadn't noticed the other guard opening the door to the stairway at the same time. So we all tramped up the stairs whilst he rushed round to see the queue meandering to the third floor.
     
    You have to admire his keenness.
     
    Driver of the Week
    Leaving the library I crossed the junction and began making my way to the hill. Its a busy circular convergence of routes and as the traffic lights changed, the usual chariot race to get the best lane on exit took place. One driver had obviously gotten bored with waiting at the lights and opened a can, which he chucked out the window as he floored the accelerator. It made quite a racket as it bounced on the tarmac.
     
    Thing is, we don't see much of that behaviour in England. Littering is after all a heinous crime second only Warming The Climate, and punishable with a hefty fine. But then he was driving an ordinary car, so I guess in the eyes of some people it's more acceptable.
  6. caldrail
    Another glorious morning. On my way to the Job Centre I stopped in the park for twenty minutes, watching the various waterfowl doing fowl things on the lake. The black headed geese stayed by the shore, pecking each other for something to do before the breadcrumb crowd arrive. Pidgeons in all shades of grey didn't wait, flapping around and searching the pavement, mystified as to why breadcrumbs hadn't magically appeared. There were no swans today. Those graceful birds are a common sight here usually. A solitary gull circled the lake and periodically snapped something out of the water. Ducks swam about aimlessly. Coots and moorhens sniffed out the opposition. We sometimes get an occaisional crane, but that's a rareity.
     
    All this was pretty much what I expected. Then I spotted a single bird out on the water. A grebe. The sloping crest was unmistakable and almost as soon as I saw it, it vanished. That bird is a feathered submarine. Nonetheless, it was a pleasure to see one.
     
    Sooner or later, that old woman with the plastic bag will be along, and the birds will be there, each competing to get that last breadcrumb before the other. Apart from the gull that is, serenely disinterested in such lowly food, much preferring the quick dip of a beak into the water and a swift getaway with whatever morsel it caught.
     
    If anyone thinks I'm becoming something of an ornithologist, please don't panic. I have noticed lately that nature is all the more interesting when you have time to take an interest in it. You start spotting little details, the individual characters, the daily drama of survival on the lake. Guess I haven't much else to do before the library opens. Ah well. Time to wander down the Job Centre and scramble for that last remaining vacancy.
     
    Vacancy of the Week
    The Job Centre changes every time I go in there now. Each fortnight I sit in the assigned area awaiting the call for a thirty second interview, only to be approached by one of their advisors who tells me politely that I'm sat in the wrong office and could I go across the building. Sigh.
     
    Today, and somewhat unusually, the woman across the desk handed me a list of the latest vacancies and asked which would I apply for. This has to be joke. Temporary tradesmen, cleaners, carers, and van drivers. After a grimace I try to be positive and tell her I wasn't entirely interested in any, but if need be, I'll apply for the van driver job. Ah, she says, that's a self employed position (which renders it unclean as far as the government guidelines are concerned) so no joy there.
     
    Was that a test? Please don't tell me I'm going to bombarded by offers of driving jobs. I worked for a courier firm once. Thirteen hour shifts, addresses that Marco Polo couldn't find, and endless hours sifting through piles of badly labelled packages in the back of a grimey van. Joy. The things I have to do to earn my daily bread...
  7. caldrail
    The Toyota Prius.
     
    Heard of it?
     
    Its that fashionable eco-car that celebrities buy to look like they actually care about the enviroment. Its the car that Top Gear entered in its Comedy Handling Competition. That Jeremy Clarkson gave to a cowboy to shoot with a .50cal heavy machine gun. Its slow, ugly, the seats are uncomfortable, and never does achieve the fuel economy that Toyota claim. Its also the car my father bought.
     
    My father wants me to buy his Prius. A couple of years ago I threw his offer of a Corolla back in face - dies he really think the Prius is going to be any more desirable? Road tax is only
  8. caldrail

    The Library Blues

    By caldrail,

    As usual, we line up outside the library waiting for it to open, so we can all enjoy the public internet access. Read books? Ahem. The doors open, and the library assisteant, a clean cut lad, is brushed aside as the experienced library goers are keen to log on. Poor lad nearly gets trampled to death.
     
    Good grief, AM's friend has bought himself a new coat. Instead of the filthy padded jacket he's owned since 1976 he now wears a raincoat, very suitable for spring sunshine and long days in the park. Err.. feeding birds that is...
     
    AM himself is his usual self. The world exists for him to whinge about, and as usual, his attempt to send emails to Mauritius fail and he gets uptight about it. He loudly informs us all of how difficult the computer is to use, and how easily it doesn't do what he wants. Having informed and educated us, he eventually harasses the library staff and an incredibly patient lady shows him the correct button, the one he was shown last week.
     
    So we sigh with relief, and do our own thing. Then one person opposite speaks into her mobile phone quietly....
     
    "Hey!" Spits AM irritably, "We're trying to use our emails, could you be quiet please?"
     
    Well, most of us already were, but he went red-faced as myself and others try desperately not to guffaw too loudly....
     
    My Event of the Week
    I got a phone call yesterday. Wrong number. Ok, back to sleep...
  9. caldrail

    The Library Doors

    By caldrail,

    Waiting outside the library for opening time has become something of a ritual for me. Its funny how its a daily ritual for a lot of others too, and the same faces keep on turning up. We pretty much arrive at our usual times, and line up in the same positions. The wonderful diversity of life hasn't quite colonised Swindon then.
     
    As was easily predicted, the same librarian unlocked the door (We'll call her Miss K) , a fidgety thin girl who rushes around like a housefly. There's a power operated door and she unlocks that first, which I think is a good idea because the revolving doors are not designed for human beings to use. I have to shuffle round in a somewhat undignified manner and there's some embarrasing squeaking noises followed by a loud 'pop' as I squeeze out the other side.
     
    Immediately the power door swung open the young man who's always there first turned and wandered in under his usual comatosed way, totally unaware Miss K had not given permission for him to do so. Oblivious and a little quicker off the mark than she expected, he plodded down the corridor before she could stop him.
     
    "Don't come in!" She gestured at us to stop, "The door might hit you..."
     
    Having already pressed the button to keep the door open, I looked at her a little increduously. She looked back at me and carried on talking "Well, you can come in now, its the door... sometimes..."
     
    Miss K gave a deflated sigh as we all strolled in. Poor girl, she tried so hard to be efficient.
     
    Old Friend of the Week
    When I was a young boy my mother sometimes took me to Swindon Museum for a wander around. Oh come on. This was the time when people still had black & white tv that turned off at night and computers were the sole preserve of mad scientists. Anyway, in one room was a stuffed crocodile, a gharial, a narrow-snouted fish-eating relic that survived from prehistoric times. I've no idea why, but I used to love that exotic beast forever reduced to gathering dust.
     
    Yesterday I was in my bedroom and happened to overhear my neighbours in the back yard chatting with their friends. A woman described how she often took her daughter to the museum to see the crocodile. "She loves that crocodile... Dunno why..."
     
    I could only smile. That old reptile has been charming kids for generations. Still going strong.
  10. caldrail
    Over the last few days the rain has been intruding on our daily lives here in Darkest Wiltshire. Not a deluge, and no reason to expect flooding, just a series of heavy showers as the days wear on. The weather seems to have afflicted my old keyboard. The antiquated electronics are behaving in a strange manner, making the sound I get out of it something of a lottery.
     
    Then there's the matter of the gas bill. If ever there was a lottery that is it. They seem to set the payments at random these days. My recent complaint to the supplier has borne fruit. The bill has been reduced to its former level. Phew. Now I can afford a curry this week.
     
    My favourite curry house is something of a lottery too. Now they know me quite well. They should. I've been buying takeaways from that establishment for many years, and they smile and wave across the street at me these days. Should I approach them of an evening for a meal, they no longer ask what I want. "Lamb vindaloo, Sir?"
     
    Ahhhh... No. Not today.
     
    "Lamb biryani, vindaloo hot?"
     
    Yes. That's what I want. The thing is though, although the meal is excellent and generally of the curry style, you never actually know what you're going to end up with. Of course it is a biryani, but the last one had mushrooms in it. Not that I mind, it's just I can't help feeling they're making do with whatever bowl of curry is standing idle. A bit of a lottery then?
     
    Oh yes. Lottery tickets. I still pay for those,
  11. caldrail

    The Lurve Fest

    By caldrail,

    Over the weekend we had that inevitable media circus that is Valentines Day. I have to be honest, the search for lurve was quiet this year, and as far as I'm aware there wasn't much on tv apart from the usual late-night adverts for mobile phone fantasies. Yes, there were some groups of drunken girls squealing at every suprise as they do. A group of adolescents chanting and beating their chests in a display intended to impress us with their manliness. Heard it all before lads. Sorry.
     
    For some people, it isn't a fantasy. In the news lately is a 15 year old girl who has been made pregnant by her 13 year old partner. If that wasn't bad enough, two more 13 year old boys have stepped forward and claimed they are the father. One gets the impression the girl isn't entirely virtuous (she claims there's no-one else), or that the boys are trying to compete for status. For them I suspect its all a bit of a fun thing. It will be until the bills stack up and the kid keeps on crying.
     
    There's been comment before about how teen magazines encourage their readers to dip their toe in the adult world, that such behaviour is normal, admirable, and whats wrong with you if you can't? A part of me thinks these magazines should pay toward the upkeep of their lurve child.
     
    Mission of the Week
    In Norway people are rushing to store 100,000 species of crop seeds from potential extinction. Is it just me, or is it the fact these species (most of which were created by us anyway) are no longer commercially grown just a small pointer to Darwins Theory of Evolution? Survival of the fittest. If Kellogs doesn't make cornflakes from it, it's going to die out. So come on Norway, stop storing these seed packets like rabid collectors and start making lots of breakfast cereals.
  12. caldrail
    The French said No. The Dutch said No. Having rendered further progress on the Treaty of Lisbon illegal, the power brokers behind it then asked the Irish. The Irish said No. So the power brokers behind it are now telling us we must find a way around the obstacle.
     
    Pardon?
     
    Whats the point of a vote if its going to be ignored if the sponsors don't like it? The people of three countries have stated their wish to halt further european integration under the terms given.
     
    It hasn't gone unnoticed by me just how much of traditional english life has been dismantled already, and that by a socialist government that has already declared it will continue to ratify the Treaty of Lisbon. A treaty that gives Brussels unprecedented powers over its contituent nations.
     
    We cast a critical eye on events in places like Zimbabwe thinking it could never happen here, yet something uncomfortably similar is growing under our noses. I've warned about this sort of thing in the past. If you don't defend your freedoms someone will take them away sooner or later. A government that doesn't listen - at all - is a tyranny. Its easy to say that such views are merely paranoia. Perhaps, but its also true that tyrannical governments thrive where people dismiss their intentions as harmless.
     
    It may well be that many things that have occured in Britain are nothing more than coincidence, but I can't help seeing some sort of gameplan here. British nationalism is well known - its an obstacle - so lets dilute it. We'll give Wales and Scotland the local government they want. We'll import large numbers of immigrant workers. We'll stop teaching 'proper' history in our schools. We'll use fears over climate change. We'll use fears over terrorism. We'll make the british people dependent on government aid. We'll encourage the british people to see themselves as european.
     
    There are men and women out there planning our futures. The only problem is, they're not the ones we voted into office. It would be a grim irony if the sacrifices made by our forebears to fight for freedom in Europe were pushed aside and a new reich put in place.
     
    Good News of the Week
    The crew of the space shuttle Discovery have been told that the floating debris and an unexplained bump are not dangerous. One certainly hopes so.
  13. caldrail

    The Meaning of Liff

    By caldrail,

    As you might have guessed, I spent last night watching Monty Python's third film, The Meaning Of Life, definitely the least funny of the three, and perhaps proof that Life isn't fun? Certainly the town I live in has tried to tell us its a great place to live ever since the railworks, our very own dark satanic mill, closed for business. Yet Swindon always seems so meaningless.
     
    It does seem a little coincidental that I've chosen to discuss the Meaning of Life, especially since I seem to have so little of one these days. Or so it seems. Funny thing is, the people who pour scorn on me for not being popular really don't seem to have any more life than I do, nor are they actually popular beyond a few mates. It's as if they don't comprehend that the world exists beyond their own self importance, thus ignorance really is bliss.
     
    Of course lifes rich diversity is easier if you're rich too. They say money makes the world go round, though one wonders whether Sir Isaac Newton actually thought that the contents of his purse made apples fall on his head.
     
    I must now devote an entire paragraph to Jesus. The reason for this is that despite being offically described as the 'Worlds Most Caring Person', he poured scorn on rich people like a sort of ancient Jewish marxist. Since the Roman Emperor was one of the richest people around at the time, one can understand why they nailed Jesus up. It's a bit like Emperor Tiberius slapping the mans cheek shortly before telling him in a heavy Italian accent that he hadn't shown enough respect.
     
    The Romans of course believed money was everything. By strange coincidence, so do the people who are good at earning it. There seems to be this attitude amongst them that since they can afford to be more sophisticated, they are, and are therefore happy at being intrinsically superior to plebs. Just human nature I guess. But are they any different to plebs? Not really, since they always adopt the same lifestyles as their peers. Since I don't seem to be adopting the lifestyles of the Joneses, I must conclude the Meaning of Life isn't found in my bank statement.
     
    So where else? Some people see meaning in science, religion, sport, politics, fashion, popularity, gambling, violence, alcohol, drugs, art, music, literature, families, friendships, travel, hot sex, hot cars, railway engines, stamp collecting, fluffy animals, carbon footprints, inconveniently placed trees, or simply sounding important. I guess the Meaning of Life really boils down to the fact that you can choose.what it means to you. So make your mind up and be happy before someone else decides what you should do to make their life meaningful.
     
    New Low of the Week
    It had to happen. After nearly a year of trawling through job adverts and banging on doors, I finally succumbed to temptation and applied for a job of manual labour in a warehouse. Sigh... Now all I have to do is find a warehouse that's still open. Ouch, that sounded pessimistic. Unforgivable. Especially since I've just had a pay rise on my benefits. Excuse me while I check my bank statement.
  14. caldrail

    The Meaning Of Socks

    By caldrail,

    As Tuesdays go, this was not a good one.
     
    Let's see... What happened today?
     
    Erm... Not much...
     
    Oh hang on - I did burst into song first thing this morning!
     
    My Italian Tenor Moment
    Just one more carton
    Give it to me
    Fantastic fashions
    From Italy
    I want - to look my best
    So give me that carton
    And bu-u-u-u-rn the rest
    Proof of God
    Yes - in the desolate wastes of the stockroom, isolated from human contact and with nothing but navel gazing to keep us from devolving into fish, we discovered God. It all happened in the sock section. A revelation of earth-shaking proportions, almost biblical in significance. I held up a pack of socks and realised they formed the letter 'J', thus forming a physical manifestation of J's divine presence. Bow down to J sinful mortals and check your socks. Demonstrate your J-ness by the colour of your knitwear.
     
    We did have a false alarm as Miss L decided that socks were a manifestation of her divine presence, until we realised she was in Russian mode and was reading 'L' the wrong way round. Never mind. Instead we made her an official princess today as J the Giant Killer once again fills the baler in happy safety now that the Dragon Mistymouth has been defeated. Yep. Defeated.
     
    STOP PRESS!
    Late breaking news in the stockroom is that Mistymouth has been escorted off the premises by security. We're still waiting for details on this story and we'll be bringing you updates as we learn more.
     
    Conclusion
    As you can see we were all a little bored. If I were honest I'd have to confess we were all bored a lot. Probably because Miss A is on holiday.
  15. caldrail
    Ok. The blog's been running for a while, stories are getting thin on the ground, characters a bit familiar and tired, and its slowly metamorphising into Last of the Summer Wine. Time then to... Come with me now - and let me take on a journey through Time and Swindon, to the Land of the Mighty Supermarket...
     
    Why is it, whenever I go there, that every old person seems to drift in front of me and block my progress in the search for provisions? You turn left, you turn right, you give up and use the next aisle, and they still block you. These days of course they have those infernal mobility buggies, which aren't designed to negotiate the torturous corners in your typical supermarket. Oh get out of the way Old Person, I want to go...
     
    "Excuse me young man. Could you reach up there for me? I want a tin of peaches.."
     
    Of course madame. There you go.
     
    "Thank you. You're very kind."
     
    No problem.
     
    Now please get out of the way...
     
    Oh no, I've attracted the attention of that young keen security guard. He's shadowing my every move like James Bond after a KGB agent. Heck, I hope no-one saw me putting that bag of vegetables in my shopping basket...
     
    Then there's that spooky check-out lady, the one who started a few weeks ago. She's nearly ready for a bus pass too. As she lifts my bottles of coloured water through the barcode reader, she says "Good value these, aren't they?"
     
    Yes. Yes they are. Thats why I buy them. Hasn't that possibility occured to you yet? Or that you've asked the same question each time I've used this lane at the check-out - Am I stuck in some sort of time loop? Condemned forever to pass through this ladies check out lane?
     
    No. If I've learned anything from endless repeats of Star Trek Next Generation, there's always a way to break the cycle. Come on Caldrail, what would a trekkie do in a situation like this?
     
    Ah yes. Beam me up Scotty....
     
    Undiscovered Tribe of the Week
    In Brazil a previously undiscovered tribe has been found in the Amazon jungle.Sorry guys, even you can't escape my blog.
     
  16. caldrail

    The Month of Siesta.

    By caldrail,

    I like September. here in Britain under our ever-warming climate its become a respite, a chance to relax. The humid thunderstorms of the August rain season are passed, and the gales of October are yet to arrive. The air is cool and the sun warm.
     
    Its not just me. I do notice other people are more relaxed too. I pass employees quietly sitting in the sunshine outside their workplaces without any of the insidious mickey-taking of passers-by. i wonder if this has to do with kids going back to school too?
     
    But its not just us. I see cats and dogs taking it easy too. Only once this month have I been confronted by a yapping small dog. The bigger ones just trot by wagging their tails.
     
    I like September.
     
    Album Track of the Week
    Having discovered what a tuneful metal band Disturbed are, I was pleased to find a copy of another album of theirs in the shops. A Thousand Fists contains a small suprise too. They've done a cover of Genesis's Land of Confusion, which actually sounds not bad at all given the heavy metal treatment, and proves they're a band that likes to take risks with material.
     
    Now that Phil Collins is going deaf, perhaps he should have done it properly like Disturbed.
     
    Now if you'll excuse, I've got an appointment with an air guitar teacher.
  17. caldrail

    The Mood Is Black

    By caldrail,

    Right. Time to sit down in my cubicle at the Library and while away an hour on the internet. It's quiet, nobodies showing off their bestial personal habits, and no mobuile phones... Uh-oh. I spoke too soon. The young black lady on the PC to me right whipped her phone out with practised ease. She spoke clearly, confidently, quietly, and for some strange reason, there was a very appealing tone to her voice. I found myself listening in. Oh no. I've turned into a sad eavesdropper. Oh well..
     
    Now it seems that her friend has a relation who is getting into trouble with the police. That seems to be a rite of manhood with young black males all over world. It makes me wonder if their girlfriends get turned on by the bad boy image... "You've been arrested how many times?... Wow...."
     
    I don't get it. With all the modern equality and equal opportunities, not to mention a black President of the US, how can young black males claim to be repressed? They say White Attitudes. What White Attitudes? I used to hang around with a group of young blacks and found them affable company, even if they did try to live up to the L.A. image. None worked for a living of course, and it doesn't take much speculation to figure out how they paid for their designer clothes. I remember meeting a twenty-something black woman a year or two ago. Somehow or other we got talking and I have to confess, she was nice. Sadly my 'White Trash' label didn't impress her mother, who happened to be in the bar too, and the young lady promptly vanished from sight.
     
    It seems to me that racism, even in its mildest forms, persists because the blacks want it to. Its common ground for them, a focus of their community, an excuse, a cause to cling to, justifying every attempt they make to get something for nothing. Now there will be some people who'll accuse me of hypocrisy given my short-lived betrothal to Miss J. For those who haven't read my blog before (shame on you), Miss J was a black lady chosen by DS, a former boss of mine, a blonde airhead with the attention span of a goldfish and the marital instincts of a piranha. Given the circumstances, Miss J's skin tone was the least of my worries.
     
    So now we have a 44th Precedent of the United States. I would like to think he'll make a difference in more subtle ways than international politics. Somehow, I doubt things will change very much after the euphoria dies down. To many young blacks, it's business as usual.
     
    News Item of the Week
    Right, I've mentioned Barack Obama, I've done my duty. Now lets find the most interesting news item that doesn't have 'Inauguration' on it. Lets see...
     
    Parade on Pennsylvania Drive.... No.
    Bullet proof glass viewing compartment.... No
    Obama means 'He With Us' in Persian... No.
    Bible used has segregational connections... No
    Most people ever in a political meeting... No
    Newspapers describe crowd as 'Biblical'... No
    Steven Spielberg says he couldn't afford to film a scene with a crowd like this... No.
    Reaction of Iranians... No
    Kenyans hold celebration party.... No
     
    Oh I give up. Yes, it's Obama. But under protest, because the media aren't interested in anything else right now. Hang on... Whats this? RAF C130 scrambles to take pregnant woman from Stornaway Island to mainland hospital... Aha! Action, human interest, and a happy ending, all in one go. They almost got lost in the rush to cover Obama there. Well done lads.
  18. caldrail

    The Morning After

    By caldrail,

    My usual Monday ritual begins at the Job Centre. Walk in, pass by the swarm of security guards as they appraise me for terrorist capability, and ascend the steps to my assigned floor where I sit and wait for an interview... And wait... This appears to be the latest wheeze designed to catch me out. No searching the database for vacancies, just sign and go after a long wait. Presumably this will lull me in to a false sense of laziness.
     
    "Sorry to keep you waiting." The gentleman said as he led me to his desk.
     
    That's okay. I'm getting used to it.
     
    Not A Fluffy Add-On
    Cameron is thumping his fist and telling us all that his vision of a 'Big Society' is not a fluffy add-on. Correct it isn't. It's a slogan, designed to inspire some sort of response from the apathy that is british life. There's a sort of messianic quality to this sort of politics. It becomes a sort of religious sermon. After the disappointments of this weekend I have to ask myself whether politics and religion are any different. Both promise much and fail to deliver. So without any real policies and ideas to make Britain a better place, Cameron tries to get us to do it for him.
     
    In fact, I qualify as one of Camerons zombies, rising from the grave to work again. Come to think of it, zombies get a raw deal. I mean, all the films and television shows portray them as evil mindless killers hell bent on world domination. Most of the zombies I know have lost all sense of purpose. Some drift into a very real zombie-hood. Some drift into a dark and mysterious lifestyle that the government agencies hunt down and destroy.
     
    Me? I'm still trying to push the coffin lid up through the dirt. After all, I'm not a fluffy add-on either, despite the opinions of some zombies in my area. I have accrued years of experience of groaning and smelling badly in public places. But you see, in this cut throat world of cataclysmic change, it's the fluffy add-on security blanket that people want and need.
     
    Jesus Is A No-Show
    Hands up anyone who got raptured this weekend?... No, not sex with the missus, I mean vanishing into thin air leaving behind all your worldly goods. No-one? No-one at all?
     
    They say you shouldn't mock the afflicted. My horoscope for today says I'm putting other peoples needs to the fore, and that I should waste no more time with dogs barking up the wrong tree. I'd be happy to if they'd stop barking at me.
  19. caldrail
    Human endeavour is a curious thing. A lot of what we do is little more than instinct. Watch any wildlife program and you see exactly the same behaviour patterns that human beings have always displayed. It's just that we like to kid ourselves that we're somehow superior when in private we like being as animal as possible... What? The same goes for war. It's just an extension of one herd against another in competition for something. Most animal species have learned to ritualise such behaviour to minimise casualties and indeed so have we. It's called sport. So a little hint to moslem fundamentalists - practice your soccer skills guys - it's just as effective in making your point as blowing up the enemy team.
     
    But is there more than simple instinctual responses? Is there something deeper? As a spiritualist I have to say yes, though I do point out that latent quality is present in all living things, and that usually our four legged friends have better things to do. Like eating, sleeping, and making baby animals (after headbutting each other for a couple of hours).
     
    The reason I ask this is a conversation I had back at the programme centre. We were sat around chatting, constructively of course, and in the midst of the chatter the subject of my musical career came up. It turned out that one of the guys at the centre was also a drummer in his glory days, but that like me, for various reasons he didn't play anymore. He added that he'd recently felt an urge to get back behind the kit and do something.
     
    I understand exactly what he means. Despite all commonsense, experience of failure, and general lack of talent, the urge to bash the heck out of a drum kit is insidious. That chap described it precisely as a 'little acorn' that grows and festers away until your revitalised hobby causes a divorce - as indeed he suffered not too long ago. The real point is where this urge to play music comes from. You could argue it's simply part of what we are biologically. I might argue it's our spiritual side impinging on our decision making process. What? You want an argument over it? Okay buddy, put 'em up....
     
    The Need To Practice
    Now that I'm working on my new album (the first in twenty years - you can sort of tell the royalties have run out) I've rediscovered how pigging difficult playing a musical instrument well can be. Of course I can still play. it's like riding a bike - you never really forget, just fall over a few times until you remember how to balance yourself on it).
     
    For me the worst thing is actually finding the time to do anything, and that's despite my absence from the workplace in recent times. When you're young, idealistic, and full of enthusiasm it all sort of takes over your life and playing music is pretty much all you do, and the urgings of the older generation to get your hair cut and find a job go unheard. Now of course I'm older. Which means growing my hair is a sign of anti-social nostalgia for my lost youth and that playing an instrument no longer makes you immediately popular with your mates.
     
    That little acorn is still there, nonetheless. Egging me on, making me look over my shoulder whistfully at that dusty Marshall stack and wondering if the neighbours deserved a rendition of a heavy metal guitar riff I last played a quarter of a century ago. That is of course a blind alley, one just as insidious as the need to play in the first place, as simply repeating the same old riffs over and over is not entirely a creative process, and isn't the creation of something new and unique the entire basis of art?
     
    Looks like I'm going to have to practise....
  20. caldrail

    The Oxford Man

    By caldrail,

    There was an obituary in our local paper recently. Bill Slater had passed away at the grand old age of 65. I don't think many people outside the Swindon area knew him, but he was an Oxford man, a rugby player, a stage performer, but most relevant to me, my old history teacher.
     
    I read that small story on the bottom of the page with mixed feelings. In all honesty I wasn't aware of his understated stage career performing the works of Gilbert & Sullivan, and I knew from another source that he'd been wheelchair bound for many years. A part of me wishes that he'd known I was now a keen history buff.
     
    There was a time when I wasn't. As a youth plotting to become a rock drummer and so beat the world into submission, he once heard me play. The year after I left school I helped a friend put together a charity gig at a local sports hall, and also became the drummer for the band we both formed for the occaision (we won Best Instrumental Track). During a rehearsal he'd heard the racket we were making and investigated, sharing a joke about our musical effort. What I found out later was that he'd made a very vocal complaint to the authorities about us. Were we that bad?
     
    That was the problem with Mr Slater. He was a towering individual of strong opinion and character. He was also a little quirky. There was a kid in my year by the name of Chaudrake who always got pulled up by Slater for one reason or another. On one particular day, we waited outside the locked school library on the first floor, a balcony overlooking the quadrangle. Slater appeared beneath us, reached into his pocket, and lobbed the keys into a sub-orbital trajectory. We all turned our heads to watch the keys land on the roof above us. He gritted his teeth, went purple, and shouted "Chaudrake! Why didn't you catch those keys? I'll see you later!"
     
    Anyway, now he's gone, and he'll never know I'm studying history. Probably just as well. He'd only tell me what a complete mess I was making of it. So come my final day, with St Peter making himself scarce, Bill Slater will be there at the Pearly Gates, impatient as ever, demanding to know why my homework had taken a lifetime to hand in.
     
    Examining Examinations
    The funny thing is that I see in the media stories of how children are suffering stress because of the school system these days. Apparently the prospect of examinations is too much to bear. What on earth is going on? I used to get tests and exams every other week. No-one slit their wrists over it back then. I notice that the standards of examinations are nothing like what they used to be either. A recent experiment with some kids who took a bogus equivalent examination from the fifties did miserably. No wonder schools are reporting more children than ever getting good grades. The grades just aren't good anymore. I hate to say it, but there's a lot to be said for traditional teaching. Even with psychopathic history teachers.
     
     
  21. caldrail
    What is art? that's a very philosophical question at first sight but a very important one if you intend earning your living from it. For most people, art is either pretty, pretty horrendous, or pretty well mystifying how someone got paid megabucks for a pile of oversized kiddies building blocks.
     
    There have been some incredible attempts at labelling mundane objects as art. There was that display in the Tate Gallery of a cube of unmortared bricks that earned the creator two million pounds. Most builders only get court summons and angry house-buyers. The reason I mention this is because of a new display that hit the news last night.
     
    Arnish Kapoor is one of those elite artists much in demand, and judging from his interview on tv, a consumate salesman. He likes the massive work, the shape, colour, and position (good grief, he's got me doing it now). His latest offering is an oval hole in a concrete floor with all the cutaway surfaces painted bright red. Yes... But what does it mean?
     
    Mundane art is so understandable. A still-life might be static and ordinary, but the skill is in the impression of motion, of depth, of character. Landscapes and seascapes speak for themselves. Impressions of mother nature are off to a good start anyway. But how do relate the world, or any sense of relevance, to a variety of garish blocks? It's a bit like buying a Hummer 4x4 because the salesman told you it encapsulated the misery and danger of twenty-first century soldiers. What car salesmam ever sold a car like that? The truth is, the artistry of the car you cast an approving eye on is the one that has balance and character of its own. It is, in other words, a visible sales point in it's own right. It doesn't need selling on artistry if that is what it has.
     
    So as far as I'm concerned, an artist that needs to explain a work has failed. Just admit it, Kapoor, you're in the wrong job. You were born to sell bright red cars.
     
    Art of the Week
    Here in Blighty we have a long running tv show that isn't exactly trendy. It's called Antiques Roadshow, a program in which locals bring out their dusty bric-a-brac for experts to appraise. Actually, whilst the program bores you to death with intricate details of the manufacture of victorian tableware and such, the faces of the owners when they discover the horrible old junk they wanted to throw away is actually worth hundreds of pounds is hilarious.
     
    This afternoon, whilst waiting to pop up the hill for my job course, I watched Antiques Roadshow in a state of bored stupor. They showed this dull ordinary painting of a river scene. Mostly beige, poorly conceived, and of no great artistic merit as far as I could see. Not according to the expert. It's woth at least
  22. caldrail

    The Popular Choice

    By caldrail,

    Another local newsletter fell through my letter box the other day. It seems our fair town of Swindon wants to change, wants to progress, wants to become a cultural vanguard. Yeah? Really? The civic leaders and planners trumpeted that line thirty years ago, which shows how little vanguarding they managed to achieve.
     
    One of their former pet projects, the 'circus tent' market hall, is to be demolished which has alarmed local traders who can't afford the high street premises. The planners haven't said so, but clearly that building wasn't the success they dreamed of. Worse is yet to come. Finally approving a plan to restore the old Victorian era Locarno building, currently a burned out shell, what do I see? Restaurants. Lots of restaurants. Swindon was once known for having the greatest concentration of drinking dens in one square mile, now it wants to be known as the place where you stuff yourself silly. As if it has escaped the attention of planners that many of our local restaurant premises are vacant or closed for business. But it seems you can't have culture without places to consume expensive gourmet food.
     
    Hmmm... But most of those premises aren't open commercially....
     
    A Bird In The Rafters
    At work I left the rest area and headed back toward the warehouse floor, a daily ritual that one must complete with strict adherence to the timetable or suffer the wrath of management. On this particular day I met a guy by the forklift garage, holding an extensible plastic rod that was wobbling right up the top of our modern tin shack. A bird was trying to nest in the steel beam rafters. Not the usual pigeon - those birds seem to nest anywhere and don't much care who walks underneath - but a large heron, a bird more accustomed to natural waterside surroundings. I watched as it got fed up of being prodded and effortlessly winged its way to another perch, where it would await another prodding. Lovely bird, but it can't stay in the warehouse.
     
    I wonder why it came inside? To find a safe nesting spot? Seeking a warmer nesting spot? Or perhaps it was looking for a restaurant?
     
    Working With Machines
    One job I regularly undertake is compacting cardboard and plastic rubbish in hydraulic baling machines. They're powerful beasties, crushing the waste with 3,000lbs/sq in (Hey, imperial measurements buddy - we're talking Brexit here). The amount of packaging used by car parts suppliers is enormous and you would expect it to be, since each article has to arrive at the production line absolutely spotless and perfect. The only problem is of course that I have to let the other two shifts use 'my' machines when I'm not there, and what a mess they make. Wires not properly installed making it difficult to extract the finished bale, or more usually, simply over-filling the machine until it isn't possible to bale it at all. Oh no. They've done it again. So I have to open the doors and let the rubbish cascade out onto the floor and repack it properly. And stop well meaning colleagues from trying to stop the rubbish coming out. Life is full of action and adventure in waste management.
     
    The managers of course know the problem exists. They would do - I've told them - but nothing seems to improve. Oh well. At least there's been no weekend working for me to put right. One of the welding robots stopped working and its replacement caught fire. Technology is great isn't it?
     
    Election Ploy Of The Week
    Okay, against all odds, Donald Trump won enough Electoral College votes and that makes him President-Elect. But what do I hear? One party in America has decided the voting system has been hacked, and wants a recount. If enough states do that, and it only needs one or two, Hilary Clinton is technically the winner. Imagine that? Of course if Donald gets trumped at the last call - can they do that in America? - Clinton would likely be the least popular president ever. Now there's an achievement.
  23. caldrail

    The Price Of Fame

    By caldrail,

    Boy oh boy am I in a bitchin' mood. I guess you too sometimes feel that when the world reveals itself as being layered in pooh, which if you think about it, happens to be pretty much the case. But I'm not interested in your woes right now. This is my blog you know.
     
    Among the many comments and appraaisals I've received of late is the opinion that I'm not funny. Oh. Sorry about that. It depends on your sense of humour of course, but it hasn't escaped my notice that the very same people who accuse me of 'not being funny' are the very same ones who fall over laughing when I pass by. Go figure.
     
    The other opinion offered last night was some young fella who reckoned he was getting sick of me. Why? I have no idea who that youngster was or where I've encountered him. Now either I'm suffering from alzheimers or he's so insignificant I didn't notice when I passed him by. Guess he should have laughed louder. The thing is, as I always say, if people talk about you, you're famous. So last night was my five minute fix for the night. Sorry, no autographs.
     
    Second Class Service
    It came as no suprise to watch the news last and find that the big four supermarket chains in Britain are getting up to shabby tricks to increase profits. Sorry, but that's what it is. Only the other week I spotted bottles of black pepper for 69p each. Bargain! Or so I thought. When the lady on the till announced how much I'd spent in total I was a bit suprised. Well... Perhaps I miscalculated....
     
    As it turns out my mental arithmetic was a bit better than that. The problem with shabby tricks is that they're always played when you're lulled into a false sense of security. As for the black pepper, it turned out the actual price was
  24. caldrail
    A few weeks ago I had my keyboard in for repair. Now I have one that works, I decided it was time to invest in a stand for it. It isn't really for pose value at all, I'm more concerned about heaps of boxes all over the floor with long bundles of audio cables going back and forth. Far better, I think, to make my home a little safer by arranging to put my instrument to one side.
     
    I've been to the local music store about this twice already. They've been a little unwilling to supply me with a stand that meets my needs when there's a nice expensive one propped up against the wall. Despite the repeated promise from the salesperson that he'll ring me when he gets one in, I just know he's gambling that I'll get impatient.
     
    He was absolutely spot on. Having lost my patience with his 'wait and see' tactics, I nipped on the internet and found one that suits my purposes just fine for half the asking price of his. It's these little moments of smugness that make the world seem a better place.
     
    Irony of the Week
    There is of course someone else who wants to be smug other than the music salesman and myself. I find it incredible how far some people will stick their nose into my business. Have they got no life of their own to worry about?
     
    Usually I find this out because they want to annoy me by revealing that they know what I'm up to. This particular lady wants me summoned before a judge in a criminal court, charged with spending money I'm legally entitled to, minding my own business, and failing to demonstrate public depression over my circumstances.
     
    You see, for some people, unemployment is something that must resemble a jail sentence or they get upset at the apparent freedom to sit on my backside. It is ironic that not sitting on my backside is the entire reason she's noticed I'm doing something. So by sticking a spanner in my works, she can can feel superior, and if I'm not mistaken, smug as well.
     
    The great irony of course is that since I'm not doing anything remotely illegal it's entirely possible her actions will make me a good deal more smug than she is.
     
  25. caldrail
    Yep, it's that day of the fortnight. Time to sign on. As it's my number one social engagement this week I thought I'd be fashionably late, and as expected, there was a crowd of bored dole seekers waiting in long queues. Eventually I got called forward, and waited in the secondary queue inside the office. I just love this system of theirs. One queue after another.
     
    In fact, the woman who dealt with my claim wasted no time. "Have you managed to apply for any jobs?" She asked me quizzically. Cheeky woman, of course I have. Satisfied I had the nerve to brazen it out (though I have actually applied for the jobs!) she had me sign the docket and that was it. I was in and out of the desk in less than five minutes.
     
    On the way out I saw one attractive young lady, looking slightly exotic, downbeat, but not tarty. To be fair, everyone else noticed her too, and I heard the attentive security guard ask where she came from. Brazil. Brazil? She's come all the way from South America to sign on the dole in rainy Swindon?
     
    She breezed past me without a second look. Hey, am I losing my charismatic celebrity aura? Or is it because the security guards get all the chicks in the dole office?
     
    Actually, I think its more to do with being too poor. Just my suspicion there.
     
    Queue of the Week
    It seems Wacko Jacko is back. Michael Jackson has left his chimp at home in fairyland and has come to London with a spotted hanky over his shoulder full of merchandising to play his last ever comeback. Am I missing the point? What sort of comeback is it if you only mean to play a few gigs in London and hang up the white glove afterward? Well it seems an astute move as all his old fans are coming out of the cupboard and queuing for tickets. I hope they see a good thriller. No really, us idiots get a bad press and its about time he got out more.
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