Somehow it is hard to believe that I am now more than halfway through the pregnancy! It seems like just yesterday we found out (on Mark’s birthday, nonetheless!) and now here we are, I am starting to get a proper bump and Little Doodle, at 22 weeks, now weighs a whole pound!
We went in for [...]
Do you know what response I am tired of getting when asking a question? The phrase, “How long is a piece of string?” What baffles me even more than the sheer number of people who find this to be the appropriate response to give when asked a question is the sheer number of people who find it to be a satisfactory answer to the question they asked.
I don’t consider myself to be a person who asks for a lot. But when I ask a person for something relating their job, you know… data they SHOULD know because they are getting paid for this, I expect an empirical answer. For instance, if I ask a colleague at work “What is the timeframe for that?” I do not expect to get in response, “How long is a piece of string?” I expect a number or approximation or YOUR BEST GUESS FOR CHRISTSSAKE BECAUSE THIS IS WHAT YOU ARE PAID TO DO. “Normally it’s 10-15 working days, but you know we are backlogged, and Vicky is statistically likely to call in sick in just another two days time due to her ‘time of the month’ approaching.” Even that is a slightly better response.
“And when do you expect to have your bill paid?” “How long is a piece of string?” It makes me cringe. I’m sorry Sensei, your answering my question with a question of no intrinsic value must be one of those metaphorical journeys of the mind I’m supposed to undertake in order to grow as a person, much like discovering just what IS the sound of one hand clapping? Or, more importantly, how hard can I punch you in the mouth? (Everyone’s got a plan until they get punched in the mouth).
All I know is, I know EXACTLY how long MY pieces of string are, so stop being lazy and measure yours.
Do you know what shows like Sex and The City never seem to mention when glorifying life in the urban jungle? The fucking crazy people. Carrie Bradshaw never had to awkwardly advert her eyes whilst on the bus, in hopes of not drawing the attention of the ASBO that just boarded. For my American friends, ASBO stands for Antisocial Behavioral Order which is, essentially, served to people committing antisocial acts in the hopes that the legal agreement between that person and the police will discourage future acts. as slang, an ASBO is a person who looks/behaves like they have probably been served one. Do you know what these people do in their spare time? They ride the bus.
So imagine thus: I’ve just gotten off of work, having just spent the entire day talking to crazy people (I say that figuratively but, based on some of the conversations, I’d have to go with literally as well). All I want to do is use the twenty minute bus ride home to zone out and listen to my music. This is all well and good until, out of the corner of my eye, I see a woman boarding the bus. I can hear her asking the driver questions over the volume of my music. She is carrying a large bag/small suitcase with her, which she promptly leaves right in the middle of the aisle, causing the driver to abandon his post long enough to move it out of the way. At this point I am tense, suddenly I can no longer enjoy the sweet rhythm of Bohemian Rhapsody because I’ve got to keep an eye on THIS fucko. No one wants to be the person whom the crazy person selects to sit next to on the bus. My eyes quickly dart to other available seats as I think about moving next to someone and discarding the empty pair of seats where I was currently sat. Luckily, she picked another hapless victim to sit next to, a victim who now has to endure a bus ride full of the ASBO’s crazy talk and urine-scented presence.
And it happens all too often. I’m sure it’s related to living in a city ie. more population more percentage of wackjobs. However, I also cannot ignore the fact that, in the 22 years I was in the US, I encountered two crazy people. Two. Both in Louisiana (Go figure /rimshot) and both harmless. One was a man who walked the perimeter of of the Lake Charles mall day in and day out for hours, all the while talking loudly to himself (and sometimes arguing); and the other a rather large (read: 300lbs) black woman who would come into the grocery store I worked in a few times a week, lift up her shirt, and dance in the aisles. Both of them harmless.
Here in Brighton the crazies seem to have a more dangerous edge to them. I’ve seen fights started on the bus, people thrown off the bus, and too many times to count have I seen time and time again some poor person become the object of conversation and attention from these people, all the while considering getting off the bus and waiting for the next one. I’ve considered the possibility the same amount of crazies exist in America as over here, however I think we tend to lock ours up. The UK, on the other hand, takes a more liberal approach, allowing them to roam free in their natural habitat.
I’ve learned a few things about riding the bus with crazies:
-The person whom the crazy person sits next to and draws into their crazy world through conversation is unwittingly the hero of other commuters. That person is doing what no one else on the bus wants to do: occupying the nutter until they get off, thereby relieving everyone else on the bus of being in the awkward position of having to pretend nice with the crazy out of fear they might snap. Of course, this person never WANTS this position, but I think everyone is under the mutual acceptance that, chances are, your turn will come around sooner or later.
-The crazy person has the inability to see headphones. If you think conspicuously setting your earbuds in place and selecting music on your iPod is somehow going to save you from the crazy person should they sit next to you, think again. They can’t see them, the headphones are invisible.
-The person will typically smell of alcohol or piss or, if you’ve hit the jackpot, both.
-Everyone is under the assumed agreement on the bus that one must never provoke this person as it will only make the journey more uncomfortable.
The woman in my aforementioned scenario continued to get up from her seat at every stop to check something in the bag she had carried on board, presumably the dead and rotting carcass of a stray cat she talks to when not bothering good, honest folk on the bus. When it came to my stop, I gratefully got off, never more grateful for the rides to and from work provided by my husband.
It really begs the question: should people like this who, while not causing an outright disturbance of the peace but certainly making life uncomfortable for everyone around them, be allowed on public transportation? Should they, if they are going to be allowed in with the general population, be marked in some way like a scarlet letter? Don’t the other commuters and society as a whole have a right to know if someone boarding the bus is an ASBO or wackjob?
I think so.
Sending it off tomorrow! Thought I’d share what this is. This big binder is my next visa application. But how do you make one? Well it takes two years of prep. First, collecting two years worth of mail in my name and the hubby’s from official sources (ie bills, statements, etc). Then, a 17 page application. Next is every official document you’ve ever had, from birth cert to marriage cert, and your passport. Add in a generous portion of financial proof, from bank statements to pay slips. And finally top off with a £830 fee. Stir vigorously, allow to bake for 3-4 months. Serves 1.
Or so my study guide is titled. As I sit here, pouring over the study material between the handbook and the practice test questions on CD rom, I find myself torn between my desire to live uninterrupted with my husband and the extreme indignation I feel over having to answer questions that the majority of Britain’s own could not answer. Sadly, that last bit isn’t even an estimation. According to howbritishareyou.com, out of a test pool of more than 10,000 home grown british citizens, only 14% could pass the test. So much for “England for the English.” I’ve heard it argued time and tme again that if we, as immigrants, want to live in a country such as the UK then we should be willing to learn about and embrace British culture… which would be a valid point… if it wasn’t for the fact that the so called “Life in the UK” exam wasn’t a misnomer in and of itsself. You see, this material has very little to do with embracing the British culture and everything to do with rote memorization of worthless facts and census figures that will be quickly forgotten the second it is all over.
