About Me

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The older I get, the more cynical I get. It is not a fact I am proud of, but it is a fact. I disbelieve just about everything the establishment and the media tell us. I am convinced that we are manipulated into being the submissive, law-abiding robots that we have become. It grieves me greatly.

Saturday 21 July 2012

Summer School Part 1 - not summer and not school


The Open University has been ahead of the game when it comes to working around our dire summer – OU summer school is niftily named ‘Residential School’ (RS as it is catchily termed) thereby alleviating the need for endless lawsuits from disgruntled OU students who shelled out money in the hope of a week of sun. 
I had three options for DD303 Cognitive Psychology RS - Brighton, Nottingham and Bath.  I used to live in Brighton and therefore the temptation to be out and about drinking with old friends would be too great.  I used to live very near Nottingham as well, therefore the temptation to shoot myself repeatedly to avoid dredging up memories of a one year course with the British Army may also be too great.  So Bath it was to be.  I was really looking forward to it, Bath is a beautiful city and this would be my first RS.   I met a young engineer on the bus from the station to the university.  I could have been his grandmother so no ‘Mrs Robinson’ moments, but  he was very easy to talk to and, when we got off the bus, proved his worth by spotting all the teeny, tiny signs showing us where to go to register.   I suspect that the person who made the teeny, tiny signs was around the same age as the young engineer, and light years from considering failing eye-sight. 

As we walked from the bus stop to registration, I couldn’t help but wonder why the university was situated in a rundown housing estate – 50 shades of grey indeed …. however far more John Major’s underpants than tawdry, badly written porn for middle-aged women.   It was a while before I realised that the rundown estate was “The Times’ University of the Year!” that is Bath Uni.  Were architects out of their minds on drugs in the 1960’s?  Bath has been nominated a World Heritage Site for its architecture.   Why would anyone think a range of carparks with glass would create a suitable university?   Pairing the university with the city is a challenge.  Try imagining one of Jane Austen’s heroines tripping up Peckham High Street, and you are just about there.  It was all so grim and grey looking that I didn't take any photos, which I now regret because they would have made my blog less grim and grey. 

Registration took place in one of the campus bars – this was another eye-opener.   I always think of student bars as dark, dingy places with sticky floors and a few cheap keg beers and cider.  This was light, bright, had a patio overlooking ponds and the drinks list wouldn’t be out of place in one of the city wine bars.  The cocktail list, full of 40% proof double-entendres, was clearly geared towards the 18-30s crowd.  The wine list included the standard reds and whites of most bars and even Taittinger champagne, and there was also a good selection of premium brand spirits on offer.   No wonder the poor little blighters are always on the march about student funding, their entire grant must go on alcohol in week one.  

By the time I had registered and been given fistfuls of forms, a thermo-cup – saving the environment by handing out plastic cups, and babbled instructions about tutorials for that day, my head was reeling.  I went off to find my room, a move which I instantly regretted.  Peckham High Street gave way to Cell Block H.  Having spent several years in the RAF, I expected student accommodation to be on the same lines as single accommodation in the military – basic, spotless and definitely room to swing a cat, even if it did have to be a very smartly groomed cat.  These rooms were tiny, the corridors were narrow and dark and the shower and WC block over-compensated for the lack of toilet roll and hand soap with an odour that suggested bleach was beyond the University’s budget.

However I wasn’t here for five-star accommodation, or even one star, I was here to study.  We had all come prepared with a project, because that had been our last assignment, but forewarned that this may be altered or even completely abandoned on arrival, because we were encouraged to work in pairs.  On day one we were divided into groups according to our chosen subject.  I was in Thinking 2.  You do feel a little bit bereft when you first arrive, like a first year at secondary school.  Small, insignificant, out of your depth and wishing you were back in your old class, where you know the teacher and the other students.   Even during the registering process, I realised that many students had already paired up.  One entire class seemed to have enrolled and travelled together.   I had spent the time prior to registration chatting to some of the engineers, so was still standing back, viewing my fellow students from afar whilst others were already lifelong friends. 

We were herded into an auditorium and introduced to the university staff and our tutorial staff.  Prior to the introductions we were all eyeing the two groups suspiciously.  Surely our tutors had to be the group on the left, didn't they?  The group on the right were too young to teach, some of them seemed even too young to be out alone.    But we were wrong, the young group turned out to be our tutorial staff, however the really young amongst them being administrative assistants.  The admin assistants proved to be an endless source of entertainment, they were always bounding around with endless energy, perpetually smiling and always busy with something, it would be a little churlish to mention that nobody was ever quite sure what that something was, but at least they were enthusiastic about it.  

After dinner we assigned to tutorial groups according to our chosen subject of study.  The thinking group had four tutors. There was the smiley, laid-back calm one, the one with the ‘guns’ on show and, just in case we hadn’t noticed the muscles, helpfully clipped his name badge to a capped sleeve - all the better to see the guns with, the one who always had at least one hand in his jeans pocket and thrust his hips forward whilst he spoke and, last but not least, a female tutor.  Our group were so happy to get smiley, calm tutor that two of the students shouted out ‘Yes!’ when he introduced himself, which greatly entertained the other tutors.  Our tutor and the female tutor were referred to by their name for the rest of the week, but as far as I was concerned the other two were ‘Guns’ and ‘Hand in pocket man’.  There was just so much to take in, I just couldn’t absorb peoples' names as well, even though we all had name badges.  Unfortunately for me the name badge didn’t also give me 20-20 vision or undo the ravages of time and alcohol on my brain, so rather than squint at people all the time, I just referred to everyone not in my tutorial by the first characteristic I noticed – ‘him in the suit’, ‘depression lecture man’, ‘the squealy girls’, ‘the odour girls’ (their study involved scents … it was not a personal attack). 

From the first night, the tutors put on quite a lot of entertainment for the students, which was very good of them, they could have hidden away from us after lectures and had their own social life without our endless questions and worries.  Some of the students adapted well to drinking night after night.  However I felt very old amongst many of the students, I need a good grade for my overall final degree award and there were just too many people around, a drink or two (or three) with the other students once or twice in the week would suffice for me.   By the end of day one I was very happy with my tutor group, my tutor and a few glasses of wine.  I wasn't in a pair, I was in a trio, and they both seemed really nice, better still at least one of them had a very definite idea of a project and I was happy to abandon mine for that one.    I toddled off to my grimy little cell a lot more reassured than I had been when I arrived.  

Monday 9 July 2012

Victim or Criminal?


I was going to blog about lots of other things this week.  I went to the Hampton Court Flower Show, I had a stall at the local market and I was taken out to lunch at the Dorchester, all of which were greatly entertaining (and free!).  However the least entertaining part of my week is the one I find the most blogworthy, being fined for travelling on the train without a ticket.

On Friday I went into London to meet one of my lovely cousins for lunch.  I was meant to get the 10.22 train but, as I was about to leave the house, made the huge mistake of looking in the mirror.   For once I was distracted from despairing at the wrinkles on my face by the wrinkles on my dress – how could I have missed so much of the dress when I ironed it?  I hate ironing and generally avoid it on the basis that life is just too short.  However as I was going to The Dorchester, I felt that it was worth losing a few minutes of my life to look presentable.  Clearly I had not put those minutes to good use, the dress looked like a dishrag.  I started ironing it again and as a consequence realised I would not make the train. 

I called my cousin and whined down the phone to her at my despair over missing the train.  Such tardiness is caused by the extraordinary amount of free time I have in my life, which somehow is never, ever enough time to be prepared.  I find this to be one of the most depressing parts of long-term unemployment, the time I take to do the most simple task is ridiculous.  A three-year old transfixed by ‘In the Night Garden’ could wash and dress quicker than I get myself ready to go out.  Getting up, showered and dressed to walk the dog takes minutes.  Bring contact with human beings into the equation and I flounder.   Having missed one train,  I therefore had plenty of time to gather my belongings, don the slightly less crumpled dress and get the next train.  I went upstairs to put the dress on, decided I would apply my make up with a little more care than I had originally and sauntered downstairs to leave the house, only to find that the 'few minutes' I had been upstairs was nearer 15 and I was in serious danger of missing the next train too. 

I grabbed some biscuits for the dog and threw them on his bed.  Gordon, the shar pei I fostered from a local animal home, only has one eye, and even that is not much use.  Although he saw or at least heard me get biscuits from his treat jar, he failed to see that I had put them on his bed, so he followed me to the door, repeatedly raising his paw for the biscuits.  I had to go back and show him exactly where they were.  It would have been too cruel to just leave him with his paw in mid air and that morose look in his one remaining eye.   He may have cataracts and a scar, but it is still very expressive - it is the wrinkles, they are so endearing.  If only the same could be said for my face and dress.  By this time I was seriously late and ended up having to run half the way to the station.

When I got to the station, the monitor said the train had arrived.  I dithered  for a nano-second over buying a ticket at the station, which would mean missing that train but going via Kings Cross on the ‘fast train’ or getting the Victoria train I had intended to get, and buying a ticket on the train, if I made it to the platform in time.  Victoria was nearer to the Dorchester and where my cousin was waiting.  I ran up to the platform, redder than my raincoat and somewhat dishevelled … the ironing by now having been completely wasted.  I was in luck (or so I thought) and made the Victoria train, my decision was made for me by the opportunity, and I got on the train.

Unusually, the conductor did not come round and so I could not buy a ticket on the train.  Being a habitually late person, I frequently buy tickets on the train or at the destination station.  I was not perturbed by not having a ticket.  It absolutely didn’t occur to me that I was fare dodging because I was going to buy a ticket, as I often do.  Late and disorganised, yes;  dishonest – no.  I got off the train and went to the ‘extra fares’ booth.  There were three rail employees there.  One asked me where I had come from and why I didn’t have a ticket.  I explained that I was running late.  He explained very politely that this wasn’t good enough – which is somewhat ironic from an employee of a company renowned for being late.  A company, in fact, that was once so incompetent at running trains on time that the government renationalised the franchise until another bidder could be found.  The new bidder made the wise move of keeping all the Connex staff, the rolling stock and the same crap attitude to customer service so in reality only the brand and the size of the government subsidy have changed.  I very much suspected that these were ex-Connex staff, it was that menacing but polite air of 'we are right, you, the humble, over-charged passenger, are very, very wrong', but I could have been somewhat biased in my judgement of them.  

Perhaps I could have explained my situation better, or pointed out that because it was raining, and this was not rush hour, my lateness didn't count towards statistics, I therefore couldn't be fined for it.  Southeastern can be late, they make the rules.  I, on the other hand, was finding out that I could not be late.  The staff were very polite, but a bit pompous.  I was quite polite, very upset and getting increasingly petty by the second.  “Are you intending to pay with your debit card madam?” one of them asked me, whilst his colleague was relaying my details via telephone for some reason, mere documenting of the penalty being insufficient.

 “Well yes, unless that is worthy of a fine as well” I replied, devastated that half a week’s dole money was being frittered on a fine to bloody Connex (they can change the name, I remain unconvinved).

“Can I have your date of birth madam?”.

 “Why would you need that information?  How are you going to store it?”. 

“We give you this copy”

“That isn’t what I asked, I asked how you intend to store my personal data”.

“I was getting to that, it gets filed and is kept for a number of years”

“how many?”


He wasn't sure, he had to ask his colleague, they assured me it was in the terms and conditions of carriage.  I once sat opposite a man who was reading the railway's terms and conditions of carriage, he refused to remove his briefcase from a first class seat so someone could sit down.  I asked him if the briefcase had a ticket, he didn't reply.  If that is the type of person who reads terms and conditions of carriage, I know it is not worthy reading material.  The colleague had also presumable read this document, or was quick enough to pretend to have done so.  

“Seven”

Not to be outdone in the quick response stakes I had a retort ready:  “It does not involve a financial transaction in the US, you do not need to store it for seven years”.    When I said earlier that I got somewhat ‘petty’, I actually meant childish and ridiculous, but I felt so, so livid – with me, with them, with the whole policy that I was emotional and irrational. I failed to buy a ticket before the journey, so should I have accepted that I only had myself to blame, or was I justly upset?   I also felt confused, one was taking my card and my money, the other was on the phone giving my details to an unknown third party ... I had no idea how many databases were being populated with my personal data, or why.  I was paying the fine, why were they also taking down so many details and going through so much bureaucracy?  Am I going to be further prosecuted.  The more senior of the trio pointed out to me that they didn't have to fine me, they could have just prosecuted me, so I take this to mean that they are not going to pursue a prosecution, but you can never be sure.  

I told them I felt victimised, and they told me it was the law.  Is it actually a law, or just a Southeastern company policy?  I do feel that, having bought tickets on the train and at my destination station so many times there was a reasonable expectation that I could do so on this occasion.  Southeastern did not agree.  Southeastern charged me £32 for a one way journey, and on top of that I would still have to pay my tube fares and my journey home.  Therefore a £13 journey ended up costing me nearly £50. 

I wouldn’t mind if the rule was consistently applied.  I also wouldn’t mind if it targeted the real fare dodgers.  In fact, had I not been so poor, I may not have minded so much this time, just accepted it as the price of not leaving the house in good time.  It just seemed to heap insult onto injury and my wrath with myself for being late and disorganised was almost equalled by my hatred of the train company.   I did thank the staff for being unfailingly polite to me, even though I was not the easiest customer.  But I do feel victimised.  I do also realise that I got away lightly.  I could have been prosecuted.  Large corporations increasingly criminalise their customers because it is an easy way to raise revenue and scare us all into paying up, even when we are sure that we should not be. 

The rail companies like to assure us that they are getting ‘tough’ on fare dodgers, unfortunately this isn’t the case.  Had I refused to give my details, said I had no money and just walked away, what could they have done.  I see this happen regularly.  I have seen conductors throw passengers off the train, only for the passengers to walk a few carriages down and get back on.   Passenger Focus, a rail watchdog, has suggested that the greater willingness to issue penalties is merely revenue raising rather than an active deterrent, and I would have to agree.  It was very unusual for there to be no inspector on the train I was on, so it seems a great coincidence that three officers were waiting at the ticket office, chomping at the bit to issue fines.   The real fare dodgers aren’t being dealt with, whilst the innocent are fined.  Rail fares into London are excessive enough. 

I will complain, even though it will get me nowhere, but I think the application of the policy targets innocent passengers and fails to deter the genuine fare dodgers.  I have an Oyster card, I could have just walked through the barrier, which would have cost me a maximum Oyster journey of around £7,  but I went to buy my return ticket, and even this was denied me.   Trains apply rules that no other company can get away with.  Can you imagine being fined in Asda or Waitrose for not having paid for goods whilst you are still in the store … and yet the rail companies have carte blanche to do this.   I had not left the arrivals platform, I was waiting to pay, how can this be deserving of a penalty?  

Southeastern have taken a big chunk of my weekly benefit money, reminded me of why I hated commuting so much but also made sure I will miss many more trains in the future before I risk not having a ticket.  However I will also claim back my fare for any late journey, and request compensation at least equivalent to a full priced single journey.   Contracts have to be fair and equal.  Southeastern have chosen the terms, I intend to make sure they abide by them as well.    


In case you were wondering, my lovely cousin was kind enough and patient enough to wait for me whilst this mini-drama unfolded, and we made it to The Dorchester for a lovely lunch.  I could quite happily have whiled away an afternoon drinking their very palatable wine if times and finances were different.