Does anyone know why, when you print something, casually, for leisure, for fun, for the hell of it, printers always work. But then when you print something because you need to read all 98 pages by the following morning, or hand in your first essay of any real importance, printers automatically know you are in a delicate state, and go wrong? I would love to know how that is! It’s not just mere coincidence, it’s a fact in absolute truth. You do nothing different from that which you have always done, habitually, since the invention of electricity even. And yet, suddenly, a network problem develops, the paper jams, and then for good measure, it runs out of ink. So you switch to the back up printer to save your ass and hey, guess what, that too is similarly afflicted, when not 10 minutes previously they were both working perfectly. If anyone knows what phenomenon is responsible, do please tell me.
Trying to forget the incident, I carefully drank my replacement coffee, which the really nice assistant who helped me clear up gave me at no extra cost, and was chatting to a friend, when the guy reappeared and stood sulkily at my side demanding I pay for his jeans and trainers. Some 25 minutes or more had elapsed since the ‘incident’, time for my friend to get her own Friday Fish and be half way through eating it, time in fact for me to have long since left had I chosen to. I guess he saw me still there and having had time to stew, thought he would chance it. He simply would not go away until I said I would pay, and became rather unpleasant. It all got a bit nasty, and I was not a little upset by his behaviour, imagining him waiting for me outside, or in the dark recesses of the car park. Really it was just so weird. How unreasonable and mean to make such demands! The whole affair left me quite shaky, defending myself as I did and refusing to pay, whilst an audience of diners stopped mid-sentence, forks poised betwixt plate and lip, to see who would be the first to give in.
we found the cricket box upside down on the floor, lid off, its inhabitants nowhere to be seen and the cat looking more than a little sheepish.
You may remember that we have Vince the Chameleon amongst our number, and now that my son has gone to the Philippines, we are left holding the baby. Vince is fed on a diet of crickets, which live in blissful ignorance of their impending fate, in a plastic box in the spare room. I had cause to move them to another location as my mum was coming to stay. I intuitively thought she might not welcome such guests in her bedroom. I took them downstairs and forgot about them, until my other son came home for the weekend, bringing his cat with him. It was bonfire night and he didn’t want the poor animal left on its own, scared out of its wits.
My mum and I recently went to a funeral in Oxford, that's why she was coming to stay. The lady in question was an old friend; we have known her since I was 12. I don’t cope well with Churches, they make me desperately emotional and it’s something I have neither been able to fathom nor conquer. The funeral service rendered me unusually upset even by my standards, and coupled with the fact that we took the scenic route to the reception afterwards (I plumbed the wrong address into my sat nav), meant that I felt exhausted. I needed a stiff brandy, but settled instead for a strong cup of tea. It was my mum who had the drink, but I think her need was greater than mine, as Rosemary was her last living friend; now she has none. How sad is that? I am sure mum must think at the back of her mind ‘when is it my turn?’ she is after all 85 in exactly 19 days time. We were given, and I think this is a really good idea, flowers from a wreath. The huge floral tribute was divided up amongst Rosemary’s friends to act as a reminder of the day that was a celebration of her life. What a lovely gesture.
Well, I have handed in two essays, nearly finished a third about social welfare in Britain in the early 20th century and I have now started another which compares and contrasts articles about the post-feminist masquerade with laddish behaviour, though I’m not sure how to compare and contrast properly so am having to look it up – my favourite pastime! I then have to do an essay on Durkheim and De Tocqueville which carries 25% of my first year mark on Sociological Perspectives.
Having got to grips with uni car parking, imagine my despair to discover my favourite was closed for maintenance! In fact it’s the only one I have attempted to use. The others are barriered, as distinct from pay and display (except I don’t have to pay, only display) and I haven’t dared try them as I don’t know the code and can’t bear the thought of an impatient queue behind me as I try and reverse out of the entrance at rush hour. However on this particular day I had no choice.
I had a lecture at 13.00 and had left home at 10.45, giving me ample time to park, get a coffee (taking care to keep it in the cup), and chill. Not a bit of it. I drove round and round this other car park, once I realised that all I had to do was swipe my card (why did I think it would be complicated – probably because everything else is!). There were no spaces anywhere. I tried ALL the car parks that my permit gives me to access to, and even those that don’t, but nope, no spaces. None. Anywhere. For extra fun, the fuel light on the dashboard was flashing menacingly at me, so I had to take time out from my car park capers and go off in search of diesel! When I came back for another attempt, the whole sorry saga started again.
Eventually as desperation and panic were setting in, I saw a bloke walking from the stairwell and practically ran him over in my haste to wind down my window to ask if he was leaving. He was! Thank you God! Trouble was, about four others desperadoes had also spotted the same opportunity and we were all vying for the one space, hardly allowing the poor guy room to get out before we zoomed dodgem like towards the vacated spot. I won! I grabbed everything and ran (that’s a lie. But I did walk fast) to my lecture. By the time I had had a pee and got to Hall L5, up two flights of stairs across the bridge from the library, it was 13.20. There was a seat at the back of the hall so I slipped as quietly in as my heaving chest would permit, sitting slightly purple around the gills in a sweaty heap, till the lecture was over. I ought just to have gone home really for all the good it did me being there. I learnt nothing. Actually I did learn something … don’t have a lie in on a Monday morning!