Diary of a Suburban Squeen

Sometimes I feel like I live in some eerily similar parallel universe, where South West Trains is a giant octopus-like organisation whose entire efforts are bent on destroying my life. Some may call this a somewhat solipsistic fantasy, but I think it’s based on reality. I went for the 8.04 train, in a bid to be at work actually On Time (nay, even early, perchance), only for it to turn coy and decline to appear. The 8.10 was late, on a total go-slow, and absolutely crammed. I was half-way down the aisle, and some lunatic kept on at me to Move Down! Move Down Further! There’s Lots Of Room! I’m sorry, I was clearly blind to the giant vortex of space right next to me: from my point of view it looked freakishly like a middle-aged gentleman in a navy overcoat and a copy of the Financial Times against whom I was crammed in a way which under any other circumstances would be frankly inappropriate. So, yes, despite my best efforts, was 15 minutes late for work. I mean, I don’t mind being late for work when I’ve, y’know, not bothered to get up in time for the right train, but I rather bar it when I’ve made the effort and everything. Pah.

So, did anyone else watch Capturing Mary last night? Very Stephen Poliakoff. Well, obviously. I do like a bit of time-slipperiness, I mun say, and you can’t beat a fifties frock, and I like Ruth Wilson, but I found the whole enterprise rather pointless (rather like Mary’s life ended up being, in fact). I mean, it was entertaining to watch, and compelling at times, and I think David Walliams was creepily good as Greville, but it didn’t seem to go anywhere, and the framing device was, despite Maggie Smith, really quite weak. I liked the thought, inside my head, that really Greville hadn’t done anything to Mary’s career at all: she fixated on him as the architect of her failure, but in reality he had done nothing, and her faltering career was simply the victim of the fact that she had been a writer of the moment, and the moment had passed. And she went on, living her life as Greville’s puppet, helpless, but only in her own imagination.

1. There was a genius picture on the front of the newspaper today of Roger Federer winning the US Open. Sadly for Roger, it looked less like man-winning-US-Open and more like throw-organic-beans-at-him. What can I say, it amused me.

2. I am so cross with myself for getting this broke. I am usually so much more careful than this - even when I go broke, it's usually *much* later on in the month, and I've seen it coming, and it doesn't really matter a great deal because I've paid everything that needs paying. This was just careless extravagance, and I should know better.

3. I am still, years after the fact, pissed off with my parents for throwing away their taped-off-TV videos of In The Red. I *loved* it, and it's not on DVD or video, and OK, they may have got rid of their video player, but they knew I hadn't, and they knew I loved it. Rah.

The end of the weekend is nigh. Darkness is throughout the love nest. The lights on the wireless nexus thing, Marjorie's home, flicker in the night. The three of us sit in silence, engrossed in our separate virtual worlds.

All that being so, I thought I'd recap the weekend. Saturday did not go as planned, starting with the grim discovery that entrance to the Tower of London is sixteen of our English pounds. £16, people! What the fuck is that about, hmm? I mean, soak the tourists by all means, but come, Royal Palaces, give some thought to us poor sods who have to live here, and all of whose local attractions (excluding the free ones, of course, because I'm being indignant here and logic has no place) are mindblowingly expensive. Pah. So, we have graciously decided to postpone a visit to the Tower until we have a set of parentals onto whom we can shove the expense. Never say we're not financially canny here in the love nest.

So, the morning and, indeed, the afternoon, was spent in quiet, domestic pursuits. We watched Milo Ventimiglia and Hayden Panattiere on Richard and Judy (a beautiful, beautiful 'interview'). I finished off Watchmen (it was brilliant). Made some spaghetti carbonara with bacon and leeks and mushrooms. And then we walked into Richmond.

This, I am afraid to say, is where is all went horribly, horribly wrong. Our plan had been to go to the comic shop, get some tea, get me a travelcard for the upcoming week (you can't get oyster card things at Barnes station) and then head into London to go to the Globe, possibly stopping off at the National to get tickets for things. Comic shop would have been closed by the time we got there (my fault: I took ages to get ready), so we didn't bother. M&S was unsandwiched. Fucking Richmond fucking we're-not-a-tube-station-despite-the-quite-blatant-and-undisguised-presence-of-the-District-line-which-correct-me-if-I'm-wrong-is-definitely-a-part-of-the-fucking-tube Station REFUSED to sell me a zone 1-3 travelcard, because Richmond is in zone 4. WHAT. THE. FUCK? I cannot BELIEVE how crap they are at Richmond. WHAT FUCKING DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE? WHY CANNOT I BUY ANY DAMNED TRAVELCARD THAT TAKES MY FANCY? WHY, ENGLEBERT? Any, I was so angry that I didn't consider that instead of buying a ticket to Waterloo and buying my travelcard there, I might as well have bought the damned 1-4 travelcard. Anyway, got my ticket, sulked consistently all the way to Waterloo, where I had managed to LOSE my stupid ticket. Cue fifty hours on the platform whilst Katie and I went through my million and three random tickets (Staines to Zone 3 Boundary... Derby to Sheffield... Barnes to London Waterloo...) as there were ticket men at the platform entrance. Eventually found the wretched thing tucked into the side of my wallet with my oyster card. Ticket men were unduly suspicious. Bastards. I HATE SOUTH WEST TRAINS. I HATE LONDON. I HATE PUBLIC TRANSPORT. I HATE THE WORLD. GODDAMN YOU ALL.

I had, you may or may not have gathered, a raging case of pre-menstrual tension. Dammit.

Anyway, we went to M&S at Waterloo to get tea. I sulked some more. We walked along the South Bank to the Globe. I sulked consistently and with remarkable conviction, giving looks of DOOOOM to anyone unfortunate to cross my path. Generally behaved like me circa 1993. Not a good year for me. I do not quite remember at what point I stopped sulking (definitely still was going to the loo at the Globe), but was generally smilier by the time we were in the Yard.

We had gone to see Holding Fire!, which was about Chartism. Chartism, for those of you not fortunate enough to have studied it for GCSE History, was a popular movement in the 1830s and 40s which petitioned for electoral reform. Their Charter had six main points: universal suffrage (well, y'know, vote for all men over 21), secret ballot, annual parliaments, abolition of property requirements for MPs and salaries for MPs. Or I think those were the six things. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong. It was a good play, anyway, and they really made fantastic use of the Globe stage and Yard - it was brilliant, though Katie and I did keep getting in the way. Thoroughly enjoyed it, and was no longer in a strop.

We came home via the National (well, as you have to, really, walking from the Globe to Waterloo), and they had some random 'End of the Pier' entertainment in their green square bit, so we stayed and watched this genius acrobatic couple - they were AMAZING. Great fun. I love the South Bank, it's brilliant. And then I bought my travelcard, and we came home.

Today has been fairly uneventful. I finished reading Dying For It, which was really good, and I will try and remember to lend it to Xanthe before she leaves, for I think she would enjoy it. Ooh, and yesterday Katie and I noted a particularly choice passage in Mike and Psmith which we intended to LJ - so keep an eye out for that forthcoming attraction on one of our journals. I played on the internet briefly. Read a bit. Went to Sheen to buy some stuff from Waitrose, as well as some nail varnish remover, razors, face wash, hair dye (semi-permanent), blank CDs, and peanut M&Ms. Came home. Did fuck all. Made spinach risotto (yum). Made garlic bread (double yum). Made pancake mixture (unused as yet). Had a bath. Shaved self all over (as due to hormonal imbalance am living embodiment of she-wolf-man). Took three hours at conservative estimate. Washed face. Am waiting to watch Dexter. Nothing further to report, really.

I composed a post about my weekend at two o'clock this morning. Would Marjorie connect? Would she fuck! Our internet is being very troublesome indeed, so much so that later today, as a special treat, I will be ringing Virgin whatsit to arrange for someone to come out and replace our modem. Hopefully I will post my composition tonight, Marjorie and/or Belkin willing. Beware. There will be capslock!squeen at the end of it...

Am very tired, on account of not going to sleep till about half past three. I need to stop having a little sleepy in the evening when I'm tired; it completely buggers up my sleep patterns.

So, I had a bit of a Conservapedia spiral, and ended up on this entry about the Labour party:

"Possibly due to the war's unpopularity, the Labour party won a much smaller majority in 2005 and has seen key bills defeated by backbench revolts such as the plan to hold terrorist suspects for up to 90 days without charge."

Yep, that decision might have had something to do with an unpopular war, or, possibly, it had something to do with the fact that LOCKING SOMEONE UP FOR THREE MONTHS WITHOUT TELLING THEM WHY IS MORALLY REPUGNANT.

I dunno. Could go either way.



Speaking of detention without charge, once again, WTF is going on at Guantanamo Bay? How, how is this being allowed to continue? It is boggling my mind that the country that claims to be the leader of the free world, the country that is holding itself up as arbiters of democracy and justice across the globe, is detaining people, in some cases FOR YEARS, without charge or any chance of a trial? How? Why are other leaders not doing anything? I mean... I'm speechless. And Tony Blair wanted to go this way - what is he, mental? I hope any attempt by Gordon Brown to extend the time a person can be detained without charge is squashed thoroughly - 28 days is already much longer than most other western countries. A month is a long time to be in prison without knowing why.


ETA: So, according to this article, "But because of a lack of evidence, most of the suspected terrorists taken to the detention center at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, will not see the inside of a courtroom." Oh, OK, we're used to this situation. In the legal systems in which most of us inhabit, when you don't have enough evidence to prove a case against someone, they get to go home. Well, that's nice for them. Cup of tea, bit of a sit down, maybe a repeat of Friends, or Afghan equivalent of the sitcom or whatever... but wait, what's this? You don't have any evidence so you're going to detain. Them. Indefinitely. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. OK.

I'm backing away. Slowly.

Seriously, don't they realise the effect this has on even shallow, materialistic little westerners like me? Y'know, if the detainees at Guantanamo Bay, or any other similar installation furnished in their hearts a burning desire to bomb the fuck out of George W Bush, I would not find it in myself to blame them. America (and by extension Britain and other countries that should be making far more effort than they seem to be to do something about this situation) is putting itself on the moral back foot. DOES THE RULE OF LAW MEAN NOTHING TO THESE PEOPLE?!

Dear youths who have been loitering outside our flats since five o'clock this morning, banging and making a huge amount of noise so that I have not slept at all,

FUCK OFF AND DIE.

Definitely no love, not in this life or the next,

Me

♥ So, there was the Summer Frolick. And Xanthe allerged. And then Kathye allerged. I am clearly KILLING PEOPLE. Well, not killing, admittedly, with the bit where they’re both alive, but still…

♥ Sunday was spent very placidly (as it would have to be, given how hot it was). We were up late on Saturday because we were both vee restless and didn’t want to go to sleep, so ended up in bed like the two Ronnies, playing the Game (ah, so much better with the Tin of the Game, though to my horror, I realised that Chad was not in the tin! Infamy!). Slept in very late on Sunday (didn’t get up till eleven), pottered on the internet, had a bacon sandwich for lunch, went to return two wooden spoons and the squash to the Guide Hall, then wandered round Sheen for a bit, getting some fruit and yogurt from Waitrose.

♥ Stopped off in Oxfam on the way home, and I got rather annoyed with the girl at the till, who paid absolutely no attention to me while I paid for my books. She was talking to another woman who worked there, and just blanked me completely. I actually ended up saying something, because I was so pissed off. And she came out with the ridiculous “we’re just volunteers” line. WTF? What has that got to do with anything? Just because you’re not being paid doesn’t mean you shouldn’t act in a professional manner. If you’ve made a commitment to keep shop, then that means doing it properly! Rawr!

♥ Chadstock! Chadstock next month!!

♥ Also, France next month, which will be vee nice. There’s nothing like a bit of holiday, sitting round, eating brie, doing nowt. Lovely.

♥ I need to do some laundry. Am running out of knickers.

♥ I am wearing scrubs. This is not, I hurry to point out, because I have been allowed to watch a bit of surgery again. Oh no. That would be a good reason to wear scrubs; a proud and noble reason. But it is not the reason. I am wearing scrubs because in a moment of strategic sartorial suicide, I gave in to my lunchtime yearnings, and walked to Tesco to buy a sandwich.

My clothes dangle limply off an office chair, shifting pathetically with each gust of luke-warm air from the old plastic heater.

Let us never speak of it again.

♥ xanantha: Is the BBQ plan going ahead/being amended for indoor use?

♥ helenmia: Have realised I don’t seem to have an email address for you other than your work one. MtW on 7 Aug? We will be joined by katie__pillar (obviously), slemslempike and morganmuffle (also xanantha, should she wish to come).

♥ On another note, it’s the last Harry Potter book tonight!! I am now actually really excited, and bravely face the likelihood of my reading it as soon as I get it, into the wee (and not so wee) smalls. Such is the life of the fangirl.

♥ I can’t remember if I mentioned it (other than to, y’know, the fifty million people I’ve told in person), but one of my SPN fics got crack_impala’d. Am vee vee proud. Alas, Helen, I don’t think I’ll be writing anything today, so you are spared the potential of angsty monologuing…

♥ I have an urge to make a stethoscope out of string and bottle tops. I am fighting it. I hope to be triumphant.

♥ Finally, I’d just like to say I HATE THIS FUCKING RAIN. This message was brought to you by capslock!squeen.

I wish to have a little rant about private health care. So I’m going to. Because I believe in instant gratification.

I was reading the Guardian yesterday, as one does, and was once again annoyed at a throw-away comment by one of the columnists, about *of course* one doesn’t believe in private health care. Rah rah rah, and so on. It’s not uncommon amongst the liberal section of the country (a section to which I generally belong); it’s up there with not believing in private education (and I’m with them there). But actually, not believing in private health care, and sticking firmly to the NHS, isn’t a particularly logical attitude.

Absolutely, the NHS is necessary. Adequate medical care should be available to everyone, no matter their creed, colour, or, more importantly, their income. But the fact remains that the NHS is dangerously over-burdened, and ever at risk of collapsing in on itself. The fact also remains that there are a heck of a lot of people who would be perfectly able to pay for private medical insurance. So what is so wrong with people doing that?

If you can afford medical insurance, in my opinion, you should have an obligation – moral, if not legal – to do so, and thus ease the burden on the NHS, leaving it free to provide services for those people who are unable to pay for them. It’s all very well for Saffron, or whoever, to sit back with a glass of white wine* and say that of course she wouldn’t dream of going private because she doesn’t see why she should get preferential treatment etc etc, but actually, if she did go private, some patient who doesn’t have that option would get seen that little bit faster. And if everyone who could afford to go private, did, things like waiting lists etc between the public and private sectors would probably even out a bit.

Private education, on the other hand, is just wrong (as I have said before). It’s unfortunate that if you want your child to have a good education in this day and age, you basically have to send him/her to a private school. Grr. So yes, I am rather hypocritical on this point. (Though, yes, I will be looking into medical insurance once I am no longer quite so continually poor.)


* Ah yes, see me embrace the concept of socio-political stereotyping… *g*

Rah!! There are no words for how much I hate the new Guiding website. It sucks. Big time.