Rebel without a waistline

I have tried yet another diet.  Like millions of women from my generation, I have been dieting on and off since I was 16.  As a teenager, I thought I was enormous.  I weighed less than 100 pounds!   At an early age I assumed that by not being stick thin, I must therefore be 'fat'.  I look back at photos from times when I thought I was 'obese' and realise that I was healthy and looked good.  If I put on another 3 stone, no doubt I will look back at the 2013 me and wish I was 'that thin'.  Thin can be a very relative term.

In my twenties I gained 60 pounds in a few years - which triggered a year of dieting until I got down to just over 100 pounds again.  I ended up having to put on weight to stop being constantly nagged about anorexia.  I was in the RAF at the time, and was regularly dragged in to see the MO about my weight.  When I left the Falklands after a 4 month tour of duty, my Commanding Officer revealed that my unit had sent a warning that I was to be carefully monitored for anorexia.  To me all this was completely over the top, I thought I looked fabulous.  I also found it hard to believe that anyone at my unit took that much notice of me.  As there were 38 women and 1,000 men, on some level dozens of them noticed me, along with my 37 female companions, but they didn't particularly care what size we were or how aesthetically pleasing our features might be.  On my flight home as the plane came into land, the pilot announced 'bad news ladies, you are now all officially ugly again', which still makes me laugh. It wasn't a personal comment against any of us, but really highlighted the fact that we were unlikely to ever again experience that level of attention. 

However some of the weight crept back on.  By my late 30s I was chubby again, but it all went with minimal effort and at 40 I was around 125 pounds, and was happy, very fit due to joining the local rowing club and was happy with my shape.  Since then however, the weight has been steadily creeping on and by early last year I was a size 16 (I am just over 5 foot, so that is quite large).  I lost a stone and gave up.  I hate diets.They make me miserable, bored, boring and increase the self-loathing rather than combat it.  I know eating sensibly is a better option and vow to do that - but then I sit on the sofa and half-heartedly look for jobs all day, apart from walking the dog, so there is a lot of 'snacking' going on.  I note how I am distancing myself from the weight gain - 'it crept back on', 'piling on'.  It didn't.  I overate, I gained the weight.

It really bothers me.  A good friend has pointed out that if we were that bothered, we would do something about it.  I am bothered, but I hate dieting nearly as much as I hate being overweight.

I convince myself that the weight I am is the weight I should be, but occasionally something triggers the desire to be thinner and age triggers the desire to be healthier.  This time it was Facebook - I was looking through my cousin's wedding photos from 2008 and wondered who 'the fat woman' was sitting at the table I was on. I didn't remember her being at our table ... then I realised 'she' was me.  Looking at myself objectively, I had thought I was unattractively fat. That was a couple of stone ago.  SI don't have a fat phobia, I know larger people who look beautiful, but it really doesn't suit me.  I don't feel healthy.  I sleep badly, my knees ache if I walk for too long and this much self-loathing is not good for anyone.  I walk the dog for 1.5 hours every day, but when we go up even a small slope, I am out of breath - how can something I do every day be a struggle if I am healthy?  Something must be wrong, and what is wrong is the 60 blocks of lard secreted within my skin.  I think of weight in terms of blocks of lard, it makes a weight loss of half a pound more of an achievement.

So I tried yet another diet- but not just any diet.  I went for the latest fad diet - the 5:2 fasting diet.  I saw a documentary last year, and it looked interesting.  Every newspaper has covered it, friends swear by it, Twitter swears by it- what higher recommendation is there?  You fast two days a week - 500 calories for women and 600 for men (even when it comes to food, the world is against us).  The other 5 you can eat normally.  I chose to stick to 1700 calories on non-fast days.  I looked it up online, so therefore it must be true, and for my age, gender and height, that is around the recommended intake.  I wanted to eat for the weight I want to be.  I would rather lose a pound a week and keep it off, than an Atkins-style rush to quick loss followed by 6 months of gorging until it is all back.

Apart from the fast days, I ate sensibly, readjusted my idea of a 'normal portion', cooking from scratch rather than convenience foods, drank lots of water, made sure I had 5 portions of vegetables and fruit a day and cut down on alcohol.  Yes, sadly there is that drawback.  However, when you eat less, you get drunk on less, so it wasn't all bad news!    I lost 15 pounds in 2009 briefly following an Atkins style diet, but was ill for months around the same time, it was during the swine flu 'epidemic', but the doctor insisted I didn't have that, however he couldn't tell me what I did have.  It put me off diets for a few years, I couldn't help but wonder if the two were connected.  I decided that I need carbs - unfortunately I have a tendence to plump (if you will pardon the unintended pun) for bad carbs.

The 5:2 diet because the 7:0 diet after a few weeks.  I lost about 3kg and it has stayed off in the months since.  I didn't feel ill on the diet, I just felt bored.  Bored of not eating, bored of hating myself, bored of not being happy with being me.

Maybe I shouldn't diet at all.  I do think my self-image is governed far too much by popular notions of ideal weight -I even looked up my 'ideal' calorie intake.  But I know I don't feel healthy, and will keep telling myself that is my goal, whilst deep down having to admit it is mainly dress-size driven.  I made a vow at the start of the 5:2 diet that when my weight were to plateau, that is the weight I should be.  I now have to remind myself of that and steel myself for the photos from family gatherings.  Don't look for me, just look for the fat bird.

Dog Blog

I wrote this in April 2012.  I was intending to keep a dogblog, but obviously I didn't.  I have no idea why I didn't post this blog at the time, but better late than never.  'McQueen' has since been permanently adopted and renamed 'Gordon'.  

I am now the proud foster carer of a five year old, partially blind Shar Pei called McQueen.  

McQueen is about five or six years old, and has been with the rescue centre for a year now.  He has been waiting for someone to take on his disability, and because he is allegedly not good with other dogs.  I saw his picture on their website, and he has such a sweet little face. 

I went to see him last Friday, to take him for a walk, and to discuss his history and current care requirements.  I had intended to take him no earlier than April, however once I met him, I just felt so sorry for him, and he really is a very sweet dog, a bit strong on the lead, but he sees large objects quite well.  I arranged to have the hire car for an extra day, checked thehire car company were OK with me transporting dogs and prepared to pick him up.

Before I collected him, I had to get the house ready.  McQueen is almost completely blind, so he has to live in a clutter-free environment.  For me this will probably be the biggest challenge of caring for him - not leaving things lying around, but it will be good discipline.  The house was tidied and hoovered.  Because I am fostering him, and unemployed, the rescue centre assured me that they provide everything.  This didn't stop me from a visit to the local pet megastore.  I decided that after a year in care, he deserved his own bed.  They had one advertised on the web for £10, but when I picked it up, it seemed a bit flimsy, so I got him a better quality one (and 'better quality' also means 'a lot more money').  His collar wasn't to my liking either - we have to coordinate, so I bought him a new one, and some toys and treats and a brush.  I could have gone on and on, but luckily, funds are low, so I restrained myself. 

After an hour's ritual humiliation at the jobcentre, including a heated debate about whether it was appropriate for me to take notes, I set off to pick up McQueen.  The girls at the rescue centre stayed late so I could pick him up, which was lovely of them.

After all the forms, and information about feeding routines, warnings against too many treats, and a car full of dog paraphernalia - blankets, food, toys, two muzzles, worming tablets, paperwork, we started to try and put McQueen in the car.  The back was no good, because he would be shut in. 

The backseat was then covered in a sheet and two blankets.  McQueen was loaded in, with a toy to keep him company, which he immediately began to shred.  The toy he had been given was a pink woollen poodle.  The girls assured me that although McQueen loves toys, he shreds them, but I said it would keep him occupied on the journey.  I have bought him a very sweet monkey, which I am hoping he doesn't shred, but the pink poodle was hideous, and shredding could only improve it. 

McQueen was good on the journey home in that he didn't jump all over the car, but he did pace up and down on the backseat, cover every inch of the back of the car with hairs, and fall into the footwell every time I turned a corner or braked even slightly.  Eventually it occurred to him to stay in the footwell, so at least we know he can learn.  The smells emanating from him during the journey were so pungent that once I had to stop the car, convinced he had not been able to contain himself, but he was fine, just windy. 

I was quite nervous about bringing him in the house.  We parked at the top of the road, and on the short walk down the road he inspected every post and wall, marking each one with some McQueen piddle.  I led him round the house and the garden on his lead.  He seemed perfectly content, so I took the lead off.  He continued to roam around.  When it is daylight, or there is a light on, he can get around very well.   He will walk forward whilst looking backwards though, hence a slight tendency to crash into doors and doorframes. 

He didn't settle well, he wasn't nervous, but he did pace restlessly.   Despite having emptied his stomach the minute he got to a patch of grass after the car journey, the frequency and violence of the smells suggested he wanted to go again.  I let him out into the garden, which he negotiated his way around well in the dark.  He has a particular fondness for the back gate.  Nothing happened, so I wondered if being on the lead would make a difference.  It didn't.  At 10.30 I gave in and took him out for a short walk - which did the trick, if anyone could describe dog diarrhoea as a trick.  This was my second experience of poop bags.  I really can't decide which is worse, the warm squishy feeling or the smell.  On balance both are horrendous, I am just very grateful for poop bag bins strategically placed around parks. 

At bed time, I felt guilty about shutting him in downstairs.  He also didn't seem that interested in his bed, despite me trying to encourage him onto it with the pink poodle.  I am sure there is many a dog with a pink poodle fetish, but McQueen definitely isn't one of them.  After a quick shake of its neck, it was discarded in favour of looking beseechingly at me in the hope of food. 

He was very good in the night, no mess and not a sound.  He  doesn't seem too keen on his bed, but was less wary of it when I moved it away from the corner of the room.  He also wouldn't go near his water bowl until I moved it.  He likes to move the draft excluder away from the door too. 

My first evening as a dog fosterer - two poop scoops, a guilt laden dinner, watched carefully by McQueen and a night listening out for sounds of distress, which turned out to be unwarranted worrying.

I 

Strangers on a Train

I had an odd encounter on the train home this evening.  It didn't result in any murderous pacts, so there is little justification at all for using it as the title of this blog.  However be grateful, I could have gone for the even more cheesy 'close encounters of the unwelcome kind'. 

I had been to dinner with friends in Islington.  They are a lovely family, so I forgive them for living in a fabulous house in N1.  We had a pleasant evening, then I set off to get the train home to Kent.  Because it's a Sunday, the train seemed almost empty.  Had it been a Friday or Saturday, the late train would generally be standing room only, and every carriage full of the sickly smell of McDonald's.  I had a group of 4 seats to myself with a young man across the aisle from me who spent most of the journey asleep.

All the windows in the carriage were open.  Although there was a cool breeze, it was more refreshing than cold.  Just before the stop prior to mine, the sleeping beauty across the aisle awoke.  He then curled himself into a foetal position and started groaning.  I ignored him.  Other passengers gave a few glances in his direction, then also ignored him.  It was late, he was probably a bit drunk.  

Waking up again, he started groaning more loudly and wailing about being cold.  He got up and came and stood over me, which was quite disconcerting.  I had my bag on the seat next to me.  He indicated for me to move it, he was cold and wanted to sit next to me.  I said no and told him to go back 'over there'.  He slammed shut all the windows, glared at me as if he has shut them to spite me and then tried to sit next to me again.  I told him to go away, again.  By this time the man in the block of seats in front of us was paying concerned attention, and I felt a bit safer knowing this.  My new, unwanted, best friend curled up opposite me to go to sleep and then started trying to grab my leg.  I kicked out and shouted at him to get off me.  He did.  He was more like an annoying overgrown toddler than a sexual predator - but the kind of toddler you don't want to be alone with at night.  He looked at me for some time before announcing that he 'liked' me.  I hardly glanced in his direction when I replied that I really wasn't that keen on him.  I was reminded of the old Jasper Carrot sketch, the nutters on the bus who always sits next to him, ranting about nuclear bombs in pockets and looking for their camel.  Some women meet the love of their life on the train, even if like Celia Johnson it is a doomed affair.  But no, I have to meet a local crazy.  

The man who had been monitoring the situation advised me to move.  I thanked him, but said I shouldn't have to.  The drunk sat up and asked me who was annoying me.  He looked quite mystified when I advised him that it was he.  I decided that standing your ground is all well and good in some situations, but staying in an environment where you are uncomfortable and in the company of  someone potentially volatile may be unwise.  I moved to the next block of seats.

I started chatting to the man who had shown so much concern.  Laughing about the incident took much of the fear out of it.  All three of us stood up to get off at Rochester - me, my saviour and the strange drunk.  I was very relieved that I had someone to walk along the platform with.  There were no taxis outside, but the man who had come to my rescue asked which way I was gong and walked away from the station and up the hill with me to make sure I wasn't followed.  It turned out that he lives quite near me, so I had company on the walk home and we never stopped chatting.  My would-be assailant staggered off in the opposite direction.

I wouldn't say I had been filled with fear, but I had definitely felt uneasy.  At one point I was blocked into the seat, because the drunk sat with his legs barring my exit.  Although he had seemed more ridiculous than scary, I doubt very much he would have picked on another man in the way he did me.  His words were friendly enough, if unwelcome and annoying.  His actions, however,  were quite aggressive and his body language almost threatening.  If someone else hadn't come to my rescue, I might have stayed on until the next stop, to avoid further contact.  Now I look back, I link him getting up and trying to sit next to me with me putting my jacket on.  Possibly in his head, he was cold and I was cold, so it would make sense to huddle together.  

I am used to walking home from the station, or walking the dog late at night, without incident.  I have convinced myself that women 'of my age' generally are not the target of sexual predators.  This may be a very foolish and naive assumption.  It also doesn't rule out random attacks, either physical or verbal, from drunks or the unstable.  The incident won't stop me getting the train in the evening and I take heart that a complete stranger came so readily to my assistance.  I was assaulted on a train 20 years ago.  In that case, a carriage full of men pretended to be deaf and dumb when I asked for help and the station staff when I got to my destination said there was nothing they could do as my attacker ran from the train out of the station.  I was in complete shock afterwards and kept on telling myself I had over-reacted - 'all' he had done was put his hand up my skirt, mock me loudly when I objected and then stand over me (he had been sat opposite) - completely blocking me from moving.   Now I am older and more confident and times have changed.  Although I note that in the paragraph above I try and justify the drunk's actions, so maybe I haven't changed that much.  Assaults are not a thing of the past, but we are more sure of our right not to have to put up with random assaults, even ones so minor ones they are hardly worthy of the term 'assault'.   I was very lucky to have sat so near someone willing to help.  I can cope with the odd nutter whilst there are so many good samaritans around.  I will also pay more heed to  the first rule of first aid 'remove the hazard, if you can't remove the hazard, remove yourself', because it seems more useful to self-preservation than my instinct to stand my ground and refuse to compensate for someone else's bad behaviour. 

Apostrophe Catastrophe

Before I start, I do realise that my blog titles are cheesy. I kid myself they are just working titles until I can think of something less cheesy and more apt, but like the now bare, unsanded floorboards in my dining room, they will stay that way for a very long time. 

A young friend shared  an update on Facebook which had been posted by her local pub, who were advertising their wildly entertaining bank holiday weekend plans.  (My Facebook connections are not 600 people I met once, but family and friends.  My family is now reaching the proportions of a small army, so Facebook is a good way to keep in touch regularly without making a hundred phone calls a fortnight.).  Reading the post made me realise just how middle-aged I have become.  I didn't think 'That looks great, I must get a ticket'.  I didn't think 'That will be so much fun for the young people, how I envy them their youth, vitality and lack of obsession with grammar'.  No, I thought "Look at the spelling and grammar on that!  Where do they recruit these people? What do they teach them in school these days?".  

The first crime punishable by detention was  poor spelling.  The pub will be featuring an "Adelle Tribute" and a "hommage to Zoo".  I am nearly 50, I might think of zoos as only an unnecessary evil in a post-Attenborough world, but even I know the woman's name is Adele. The tribute act is possibly called "Adelle", in which case she isn't an Adelle Tribute, she (or he ... who am I to judge?) is Adelle, the Adele Tribute.  I blame compact discs and MP3 players for this.  With good, old-fashioned vinyl albums, the covers were often a work of art and even when quite plain you would study the cover for hours whilst listening to your idol's music.  A scrap of paper in a plastic case and miniscule writing on your android phone just don't have the same attraction, so is it any wonder nobody can spell popstar's names?  As for 'hommage', it offends the eye.  There is, I was surprised to discover, some debate on the subject of 'homage' versus 'hommage'.  Some would maintain that there is a subtle difference between the two and some hold that 'hommage' is merely an affectation - as in this grammar blog.  I would tend to agree with it being an affectation, where the writer deliberately uses 'hommage'.  In spoken language, where the speaker goes out of their way to pronounce the word in a French accent, it is an affectation for which the only fitting punishment should be a good pelting with rotten onions.  'Homage' has been in use in the English language for centuries, I think by now we can safely say it with our own accent.   In many cases, however, I suspect it is just poor spelling and, judgmental harridan that I am, have presumed that is the case here. If the author of the pub's Facebook page can't put an 's' at the end of a word without sprinkling in apostrophes, I suspect subtle differences of homage are beyond them.  

The poor use of apostrophes hurt me more than the spelling.  To be fair, there are no further misspellings than those noted above - a mere 4% of the total message.  Apostrophes were added to conjugated verbs with abandon, i.e. "bring's" and "see's".  I took heart that "it's" was used correctly, but even that could be just luck.  Although I appreciate the attempt to maintain use of apostrophes, how hard can it be to use them correctly?  Are you indicating the possessive?  Are there any letters missing?  If not - don't use a sodding apostrophe.  How can people master complex android phones and play innumerable computer games, but not manage to grasp whether or not to use an apostrophe when putting an 's' at the end of a word?  Possibly because they rarely write anything longer than a text message or a Facebook update. 

I don't have children - which is fortunate for all, given my lack of patience.  I therefore don't know if English grammar is even still on the syllabus.  I went to a state school and not a particularly good state school at that, but English grammar was hammered into us.  Not in the same way Classical Studies was hammered into us, Mr Senior, to my knowledge, never used corporal punishment on any pupil.  We were also marked down for poor English in marked work in all other subjects.  Yes we should allow for diversity, differing abilities and greater choices, but please can we do that and teach grammar as well?   As for the original post which inspired my middle-aged rant, I don't even want to think about why 'Large' should have a capital letter and 'ibizan' shouldn't.  The Broca's area of my brain may actually explode, should I dwell on grammar any longer.  I clearly need to get out more, but possibly not to chain pubs. 

For those of you who are more tolerant, at a loose end in Surrey next weekend, young enough to enjoy crowded bars, pounding music, tributes to bands I have never heard of, vast quantities of alcohol and random use of apostrophes, pop down to the Slug and Lettuce in Epsom.  Apparently, it's going to be Large! 

Footnote - courtesy of Twitter, I have now listened to a few points by Stephen Fry on the subject (link to audio clip is here).  According to him, I am a poorly educated pedant, which is most likely true.  However I still would rather apostrophes weren't used at all than were chucked around meaninglessly.    

TO DIY OR NOT TO DIY

Today I was thinking about ripping up the carpet in the dining room and sanding the floorboards.  When I say 'today' I mean for the last three years, however I decided as the dog is away on holiday and I have nothing planned until tomorrow, today might be a good day.  

I type that as if it is something I could easily achieve, and not only easily achieve, but all in one day.  However I am no expert at DIY, I am not even particularly a novice.  I have a few tools, including a cordless drill and an electric planer.  I have actually used all of my tools at some point - for the purpose for which they were designed and without disaster. 

That said, the carpets are still in grave need of removal, either to spruce up the floorboards or lay new carpet.  I rented my house out for some years, have had a dog for a year and kicked a full glass of red wine over the lounge - by accident I hasten to add, it wasn't an expensive wine, but it wasn't as bad as to justify such violence.  Someone who had never met me and wasn't particularly observant could probably deduce the carpet's history quite quickly.  Cleaning has been no help at all, not even cleaning by other people who are more accustomed to the domestic arts.  Carefully placed rugs haven't been much help , particularly as one rug, once white now off off off white, has become the dog's new 'day bed', and the other looks very much as though the last tenant used it to park his motorbike - literally.  

I am spurred on by the efforts of a neighbour who has done this with his floors - completely by hand, not even with the aid of a hand-held sander.  They look really good now, but he is very good at DIY.  Two different friends of mine, both of whom are a dab-hand with a toolbox and a renovation project, have strongly advised against it and suggest the much wiser and easier route of 'getting someone in'.  I have a long list of jobs which involve 'getting someone in', the floorboards are quite near the bottom and, of course, I still have the continuing problem of not having 'getting someone in' money.    

Once I rip up the carpets in a room, I am committed to renovating the floorboards or replacing the carpet.  I know the floorboards are not in a brilliant state so I couldn't rip up the carpets and take my time.  The previous owners have removed a few sections and replaced them with some kind of MDF.   I don't know why they removed them - but if they were that rotten, there may be further problems there which could cost a year's jobseekers' allowance to cure.  Even if the remaining boards are fine,  I will have to buy at least enough timber to replace the missing sections.  I might not be a DIY expert, but even I know MDF will never look like the existing floorboards.  Then I started wondering about how you go about matching new boards with old, sanded boards.  It suddenly occurred to me I could stain them with tea.  Tea!  Why would I even have that thought.  There are thousands of wood stains on the market.  What kind of idiot thinks "I'll stain the floors with tea"?  Clearly the kind of idiot who should never, ever be let loose on DIY. 

My neighbour, who can be let loose on DIY, took his carpet up very carefully and rolled it equally carefully to be stored away in his very neat loft - lest the floorboards should let a howling gale through in winter.  Once my carpets are up, I want them out of the house never to return.  Also my loft is a hoarder's paradise as it is.  Adding a huge role of grubby carpet to the collection just creates more items that will never see the light of day again.   Also there is just me doing this.  I am short.  I cannot imagine that I would be up to careful rolling and putting in lofts, and I don't want to be always asking someone for help.  

I have pondered on where to start, when it occurred to me that I have the perfect testing area.  There is a step from the dining room to the utility room and kitchen which was neither carpeted nor painted.  The carpet layer presumed it would be painted, the painter presumed it would be sanded and varnished.  I discussed it with neither.  It has stayed in its paint splodged, grime encrusted state for several years whilst I walked over it, not even noticing it most of the time.  I could test out my sanding skills.  Not only could I, I would and indeed, I now have.  

Last night I had a look on Google and YouTube for a few sanding tips.  I've learned a few tips from YouTube, one of them being "be wary of instructional 'tips' on YouTube". Most of the articles and clips started or ended with the words 'don't do it'.  I ignored those, because that is just defeatist and a little bit boring.  I chose the one I liked the look of most, i.e. it seemed the simplest for me to follow.  Diagonal sanding with coarse grain, across the grain with medium and along the grain with fine sandpaper.  I have a sanding block, I have coarse grain sandpaper.  I'm ready to rock - well at least to sand. 

With hindsight I might have wanted to Google a bit further.  Should I have cleaned the step with white spirit first to attempt to remove the paint splodges?  They weren't large and in my innocence I assumed that the merest swipe with sandpaper would send them scuttering into my dustpan.  However, I didn't and there is no use crying over unspilt white spirit.  I tore my coarse grain sandpaper into appropriate sized strips.  If and when I do a whole floor, or even a whole floorboard, I will have knee pads, a mask and a game plan, but this was just a step.  It wouldn't be that messy, would it?  I think we all know the answer to that one.

I started sanding with a diagonal movement.  I did the whole step.  Either my sandpaper is a little too coarse or I pressed too hard because there are hideous diagonal scratches along the whole step.  Getting someone in is looking less and less like a luxury decision.  Can you press too hard with sandpaper?  I can understand hovering too long with an electric sander, one good reason why I am going to avoid that if possible, but I'm

a little taken aback that I and a sandblock could inflict such unsightly marks.  I haven't yet got medium and fine grain sanding paper, and I didn't like the look of the diagonal marks, so as this is a test area, albeit a highly visible test area, I decided to continue with the 'across the grain' and 'along the grain' sanding with the coarse grain sandpaper.  I dispensed quickly with the 'across the grain' session because it was having a similar effect as the diagonal trial, i.e. a very bad effect.  I finished off the step just by going along the grain.  The dust it created was unbelievable. Actually I had been warned about this by everyone who has ever attempted it or paid someone else to do it.  But this wasn't a room, it was a small step so the amount of dust was a shock.  I also couldn't credit that whilst there was so much wood dust,  so few paint splodges have been removed.  

I did consider before and after photos, so I could see for myself the improvement and the error of my ways.  But that would have delayed my trial for at least 20 seconds and I wanted to play at DIY.  I have taken a couple of 'after' pictures, although they are actually more 'after 2 minutes of playing and now I'm not so sure' rather than after completion.  For better or for worse the step is different.  It is definitely lighter in colour.  All the faults are still mostly there - the paint splodges, a small gouge, cracks and, I presume, a couple of decades of ingrained grime. I actually quite like the shade I can see it could all be, with proper sanding.  It has convinced me that the way forwards is to repair and enhance the existing floor.  It will take an awful lot to convince me that I am the person to do it.  I will take advice from the man who can, particularly with regard to pre-sanding treatment, type of sandpaper and direction of sanding. But, for today, I will only be sanding the step.  I remain in sanding kindergarten.  

All of a Twitter

I tweet – rarely wisely and definitely too much. I first got a Twitter account in 2008 but couldn’t see the point of it, so I rarely used it.  Prolonged unemployment has led to me having far too much time on my hands and so the 1,000 tweet hurdle that I was so amazed to reach became 6,000 without blinking.    Being unemployed and living alone, I like engaging in banter with people– even those I hardly know. These are, for the most part, people with whom I have something in common other than just faffing about on Twitter.  Like all social medium, it has its good points and bad points.  It also has its good and bad users.  I am nowhere near either extreme, plodding along in the middle tweeting drivel which goes largely unread.

Topping the list of bad users are “trolls”.   Wikipedia (link to article) defines internet trolls as those seeking to ‘sow discord’ on the internet by posting inflammatory remarks on social sites.  In recent weeks this has been taken to extremes when a number of individuals, most hiding behind anonymous accounts, sent insulting and threatening tweets to a feminist campaigner and several female MPs who had supported a campaign for at least one woman to appear on banknotes by virtue of merit rather than merely that of birth (link to related article).  The resulting outcry against trolling called for Twitter to review its approach and response to dealing with such abusive tweets and to cooperate fully with subsequent police investigations.

 

For the most part, however, Twitter chunters along with its mish-mash of news, politics, weather, recipes, cute kitten pictures – always cute kitten pictures, and the constant drip drip drip of individuals posting inane comments– that is obviously where I come in!   The odd comment is so revered or reviled that within minutes it may ‘go viral’, with the original author helpless to stop it spreading amongst the twitter community at speeds the UK’s highly publicised, highly priced HS1 rail could only fantasise about.  The Canadian poplet, Justin Bieber, has over 43 million followers.  43  million!!  That is about 8 million more than the entire population of Canada.  If only we could find a nice little corner of the globe to put Justin and his army of fans in.  His following means that any inanity his PR crew post on little Justin’s behalf automatically goes viral.   But when the comment comes from an unsuspecting member of the public with considerably fewer followers, the backlash of such viral publicity may be hard to take and an invididual’s life can become a misery within an hour, even affecting their employability. 

In the last two days there have been a couple of such Twitter storms in the UK.  One was caused by a website and twitter account run by a small and somewhat odd organisation who hold that straight, white men are victimised by society.  A glance at the gender and ethnicity of much of the West’s ruling and wealthy classes is enough to suggest they may be a bit off target.  Twitter ridiculed them, they first responded by threatening police action, increasing both the derision and the publicity for the initial piece they were trying to suppress, they then retreated to locked accounts, defeated for the moment at least.  This phenomenon, by the way, is known as the ‘Streisand Effect’.  Aerial photos, unmarked, of Babs’ mansion were publicly available along with thousands of others along the Californian coastline.  Babs and her team launched into a legal action to supress publication of the photos.  Ironically, prior to the legal action, the photo had only received 6 views, and two of those were from her own legal team.  Following the unsuccessful suppression, the photo had 420,000 hits in one month – hence the term ‘Streisand Effect’. Apologies for digressing at length, but the fact that there was such a phenomenon and its history entertained me greatly, so I thought I would share.

The other storm was started by a 26 year old woman boasting on Twitter of her power to deprive benefits claimants of their benefits as part of her new job.  She works for a resourcing company which liaises with JobCentres to place the long-term unemployed in ‘Work Programmes’ with Amazon.  As if it wasn’t tough enough, being unemployed and on benefits, you are then subjected to the likes of Our Lady of Diets – for this young tweeter employs the moniker ‘DietQueen’.  One of her comments read  “in my new job, if people from the JC (jobcentre) don’t turn up to an appointment with me I stop their benefits for 13 weeks … suckers”.   She followed this with “I get so much pleasure knowing what I can do if the (sic) mess me around”.  Further comments along similar lines followed, including a boast of how a claimant was deprived of all his benefits following a meeting with her.  Within an hour of posting, her remarks were being retweeted and commented upon.  She shut down her account – but retweeting and screenshots means that she would be unable to take back the comments.  They are still on the internet, and still being retweeted and commented on two days later.  The morning after her comments, she was suspended by her employer, pending an investigation into the comments (link to article here). 

Two months ago I had an appointment with my MP to discuss this type of behaviour.  I asked him  to ask that the government reconsider the way in which it portrays benefits claimants, and the language that central and local government employs in its communications concering and addressed to benefits claimants, both mass communications and direct mail.  I wrote to him again after Our Lady of Diets now infamous comments. That may seem overkill to most people, but it matters to me because the unemployed are increasingly being portrayed in a negative light.  Unemployment is not a common lifestyle choice, despite what some members of the House of Commons and the media would have us believe.  Benefits are a safety net - the vast majority of those who get them, need them and do not get more than they actually need - in many cases they get far less.  It is much over-looked that for some benefits are from their own earned income, by virtue of National Insurance paid during working lives in contribution towards pensions, credits and other benefits payments.  Furthermore, many in work are on benefits, because salaries are so low in some areas and industries.  For those whose benefits are not based on their contributions, that doesn’t mean they aren’t entitled and don’t need benefits.  Unemployment is a result of the economy, it is not the result of a workshy cult who have, en masse, chosen benefits as permanent career path.  Where you do find more than one generation of a family on benefits you will also find poor education, limited life choices, poor diet and a dearth of opportunities.  The effects on morale and motivation by long-term unemployment are also much overlooked. 

Yet increasingly the gap between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have nots’ is widened by attitudes such as those witnessed in Transline’s employee of the moment.  From the top down, this country is taking a more and more negative view of the unemployed.  MPs couch it in slightly nicer terms, but the implication is clear – people in work are ‘hard-working’, have ‘values’, ‘workers not shirkers’, ‘deserving’. Those out of work have to ‘learn’ and ‘contribute’.  The onus is all on us as individuals, and is down to something within us.  Obviously the more each individual does to find a job, they more likely they will succeed, but couldn't it be better seen as a joint venture in which the more the government also does to get people into work – not just off benefits, but actually in permanent employment, the better for everyone.   The media take the disdain further, reporting with glee on heinous crimes committed by people on benefits – as if there were a clear positive correlation.  In fact in several instances, MPs and the press have cited cause and effect between benefits and crime, for example when George Osborne linked the death of 6 children who died in a deliberately started housefire with the perpetrator’s lifestyle, stating that a debate was required over ‘lifestyles like that’ (link here).  The Soham murderer was a school caretaker; the Yorkshire Ripper was a lorry driver;  I don’t remember a massive outcry against the trades in their entirety.
  

The benefit itself is called jobseekers’ allowance.  As Archbishop Welby noted in a recent radio interview, recipients are more often called scroungers (link here).    He is spot on.  Occasionally a friend or neighbour will launch into a tirade against such ‘scroungers’, then rush to assure me that they don’t mean me.   But actually, albeit unwittingly, of course they mean me, because most people on jobseekers allowance are exactly like me.  Not getting enough to live on, struggling to find work, struggling to keep motivated and look for jobs and battling this widely held myth that we are the undeserving poor.  When you complete an insurance claim, the insurance companies may pay out as little as they can get away with, but they don’t call claimants ‘scroungers’.  Jobseekers Allowance is a form of insurance claim.  Why does the general population view it so very differently from contacting Admiral or Direct Line for compensation after a car crash?

Language is a very powerful tool, as I am sure anyone who has found themselves on the receiving end of a Twitter backlash knows only too well.  They may have been idly bragging or just used a throwaway remark in jest which was ill-thought out, taken out of context or meant for one person but posted on a public site.  Twitter is not like chatting to your mates in a pub.  It is like standing in a huge stadium, taking the microphone and chatting to your mates via that.  For most of the time what you say goes unheard – even by your friends and followers.  Occasionally the lull dies down as you are about to speak and your voice is heard by a wider audience.  If it is very funny or viewed as horrendously crass and insensitive, before you know it people are standing up all over the stadium, pointing at you and shouting out your words to a wider and wider audience. 

It is an equally powerful tool when wielded against the unfortunate.  You are trying to fight your way through a similar stadium, full of people, millions of people.   You are looking for a vacancy, when you find it, you have to apply by, figuratively, trying to shout over the person standing next to the employer, shouting in his/her ear that ‘this person hasn’t worked for months, there must be something wrong’ (it’s called the economy!).  What you don’t need whilst you are battling all this is your government, the media and half the people you meet braying at you that you are a scrounger.  You particularly don't need the very person who may get you a job to see her role as validating her own self-worthy by taking the opportunity to remove your benefits.  

I would put money on it that, should Our Lady of Diets return to twitter or any other social media site, she will be wording her comments more carefully and protecting her profile more diligently. Ironically, she may herself soon be swelling the ranks of the unemployed.  The internet being what it is, cached copies of her tweets remain.  Any future potential employer is not going to have to look far to find out why she may be seeking work.  She may be lucky and find an employer who agrees with her that all benefits claimants are scroungers.  But if she is less fortunate, I hope for her sake that the DWP advisors, the outsourced recruiting agencies and the future employers aren’t as harsh on her as she has been on 2.5 million people who would actually much rather be in work.  It matters because she isn’t a lone voice and the voices are getting louder and I hear it everywhere, so I keep banging on about it.  It matters because, for most of us at least, it is widely accepted as wrong to show prejudice due to an individual's gender, ethnicity, religion or sexual orientation, so why can’t we accept such prejudice is wrong when it comes to employment status. 

Muck Spreading

Southern Water have been providing good customer services - I just hope I will feel this kindly about them when we go on to metered water payments.  

Yesterday morning, when I went out to walk the dog, I noticed a horse manure like smell.  The previous day I had walked the dog in Bluebell Hill - which just about counts as countryside and noticed a few horses.  Even though I had no recollection of stepping in horse manure, let alone traipsing it the 3 miles home and bringing it into the house, I first checked my shoes.  I'm Catholic. We are trained from an early age to believe that anything wrong in the world is our own fault first.  

Having established that I wasn't carrying around a bucket load of manure in the soles of my shoes, I carried on with the walk.  The smell was everywhere and getting stronger.  I spoke with one of the other dog-walkers who said he thought they might be muck-spreading somewhere, or they may have brought in a load of manure to the allotments.  I couldn't think of a farm big enough close by that would need sufficient manure to make the smell as all pervading as it was.  The allotments were near, but I had just walked past there and only two people were out tending their allotments.  Allotment owners are fairly predictable bunch and they do like a bit of manure.  Had they just received a truck-load of manure they would all be round it like ... well like flies round horse manure.   

I came home, sniffing the air like a bloodhound, trying to determine whether it was horse manure or something less plant friendly, such as human sewage.  I took to Twitter to see if there was any information on there.  There was, as ever, lots of information on there.  Some of it funny, some of it bitter and twisted, much of it political but none of it concerned a local sewage leak.  It was a Sunday, I couldn't imagine the council being there, so I posted a message on Twitter to ask if anyone else knew.  Nobody did, which is surprising, Twitter is generally the 'go to' place for muck spreading.  

The smell came and went for the next couple of hours, but it wasn't particularly strong.  Finally it went completely.  It is also possible that I became so used to the stench I stopped noticing it.  I have noticed the same resolution with the dog's wind and modern government, it gets so bad for so much of the time, you just accept it as the norm.  Eventually someone helpfully tweeted that there had been a problem on Star Hill earlier.  Whatever the problem was, it seemed to have been resolved.

This morning I was up before 7, pottering about.  I made tea, fed the dog and opened the back door to let him into the garden.  20 minutes later I noticed the odour was back with a vengeance and I now seriously doubted it was manure.  I called the council's emergency line.  I was advised, helpfully, that it was nothing to do with the council and to call Southern Water.  I suggested that if there was a sewage leak somewhere so bad it was detectable for about a mile, it may be in the council's interest to take over resolution.  i.e. call an emergency contact at Southern Water and make sure it was being resolved immediately.  But no - it isn't. 

I went online and found Southern Water's 'emergency contact' number.  I was immediately put through to a recorded message.  I wondered what kind of emergency would have to occur for Southern Water to put people straight through to an actual person.   I made my selection - I chose 'potential sewage leak' because 'pissed off resident' wasn't offered, and to be fair to Southern Water, that was the most useful option to get the problem resolved.   I spoke with a Southern Water employee who I imagined to be horizontal, he was so laid back.  He was also a little annoying, which I suspect wasn't his fault, he was clearly reading from a script - and reading from it quite slowly.  

I relayed the issue to the Southern Water emergency help desk.  I was very clear that the smell had been here yesterday, was back today, was possibly located on Star Hill and was detectable from some distance away.  He asked if the smell was located inside my house or outside.  I confirmed that it was outside, my two up, two down house not being large enough to contain Star Hill.  He said he would log it for me and see if he could get someone to resolve it for me.  For me? Why just for me, why not for everyone?  Someone would tell someone, and someone would be out within 24 hours.  He did note that there had been a recent problem in my area.  There have been lots of recent problems in my area, so he could have meant one of the regular scuffles outside the kebab shop for all I knew, but I just shut up (amazingly) and hoped he was referring to the source of the smell.  

Being me, 24 hours response time wasn't good enough.  Being Southern Water, they have a script and a contract with engineers - in this case Clancy Docwra.  The contract no doubt will stipulate Clancy Docwra have 24 hours to respond.  I understand that.  However, wouldn't it be better customer service to say, particularly when the problem may be sewage and the caller is menopausal, 'as soon as we can'.  I  suppose they have to manage expectations, but I quite like a vague 'as soon as' rather than letting my imagination run riot at the thought of sewage running down the road for an entire day.  He did, however, offer to get someone to call me to say when a team was on the way.  He ended by assuring me again that they were going to 'set up an investigation for you to get this resolved'.  Again ... for me!  Am I going to look at my next ridiculously high water bill and look back with kindness on all Southern Water do .... for me and pay with gratitude. Or will I follow my usual route,swear, chuck the bill in the drawer and wonder what kind of car for the CEO my water bill is buying. 

Clancy Docwra called 35 minutes later to say a team were on their way.  I have reported, Southern Water have called someone to call someone to send a team within the hour to resolve the issue, which is a pretty impressive response time.  I was expecting days of dithering, phone calls and 'it's a big job, we'll have to wait for Messrs Bolt and Wilkins to come from Trumpton".  The plumber from Clancy Docwra knocked on the door before 9 to say he had checked and there were no sewage leaks he could find.  He said the smell was everywhere and would most likely be muck-spreading. He was lovely - incredibly helpful and reassuring.  

I can now venture out in the odour and walk the dog, thanks to the lovely man from Clancy Docwra.  I would have liked Southern Water to have had a bit more about them when taking the details and a bit less of the inference that they would look into it 'for you'.  However I will put up with horizontal customer services because it is clearly effective customer services.   

Now, who can I call to get my water bill a bit lower?