TOG blog

After reading Prof. 'Bola's blog recently, I felt that I should create my own TOG blog, even if the theme is a little recurring. I feel like the author of one of those awful "you know you're over 25 when..." email forwards, although slightly less witty.

My story begins with a little background information, then leads nicely into a rant about trains. Deja-vu, did you say?

Are you sitting comfortably?

I was away for Bank Holiday weekend, but had to return because I had "jobs" to do. Like buying some "bits" from town. I don't know when this over general language entered the lexicon, but it's only recently that peers have started to understand it. "Jobs" are never exciting, as they involve food shopping and windolening mirrors (not windows - that would take ages). I spent about an hour the other day trying to get the shine back from my grillpan. To no avail, I might add.

What a loser. And what makes it really sad? I blog about it. I may as well give up now and write an awful limerick for Wogan and his crew.

So...

I was making a usual journey with GNER on Saturday, using the Leeds-London service. Despite my train rants, it's usually bearable. I'm pretty conversant with the trainline and I have no major qualms with it (I even have a favourite "service manager" now. I can't remember his name but he pronounces GNER as "G-ner", which tickles me). However Saturday's journey was outrageous. For a start they were doing line maintenance, which they often do at weekends, but this was the busiest weekend of the year. This meant the London train terminated at Doncaster (not quite London). Then they didn't put any extra trains or carriages on to replace the missing service. Everyone had loads of extra luggage. We all crowded onto a connecting service. We literally couldn't get onto the train at times due to overcrowding, but we all had to get somewhere, so weren't keen to compromise our place. One poor man was busy trying to get his luggage on but couldn't get out to rescue the rest of it. The doors shut on him, leaving him sweating excessively as he wouldn't be able to return in time before missing his flight home from Heathrow. And we all know what happens to luggage left unattended on a train platform. Boom. Especially when left by an Arab. Poor man. I tried to help him by calming him and finding a guard, but we couldn't move. Add to this smelly and stressful concoction a rough cockney woman, her two daughters and two lovely dogs, which were being trodden on. I was so sorry for the animals. It's exhausting being responsible for the world.

Meanwhile sweaty Arab man is looking marginally more calm, as I convince him that I'll find a guard once we reach Retford, who can hopefully convince Doncaster staff not to blow up his belongings. And perhaps even get them to him. Upon arrival I heroically find said train guard (John Bailey, I believe) and request his assistance. He politely tells me it's nothing to do with him. He's more concerned with getting the train off so he can return to his post of arse-sitting. He shuns me off. I try to find the man so I can calm him one last time, and wish him well. But no, the train doors are a-closing and people are running around madly. John Bailey hadn't waited until everyone was away from the train, had he. Train pulls off. Next thing I know, there's a woman lying on the platform, quite still. She had been trapped in the doors whilst trying to retrieve her luggage. She was unsuccessful. Arab man's luggage is in Donnie Donnie Donnie Donnie (ahhh) whilst he's on the train, and poor still woman's is on the train, yet she's immobile on the platform. I call an ambulance. John Bailey takes no interest. Eventually paramedics arrive and things aren't too bad.

I apologise for the lengthy rant, but I am truly outraged with GNER! It is not merely my early-onset TOG-dom than brings out my ability to complain about public transport. I will keep you posted with the complaints process. I predict it will involve firstly receiving an automated reply along the lines of "we will deal with your query if and when we can be arsed", followed by a more personal communication along the lines of "not my fault. Don't care. Not going to apologise as would seem like we're at fault...". Ah, God bless* the large scale corporation. I only hope that things will improve once National Express take over the route.

Bonjour,
Moon. xxx

*Incidentally, seeing as I've mentioned the big G himself, feel free to click on the new addition to stroppy blog: the red A, for my feelings on God.

Augustine musings

That title has put Patrick Wolf's "Augustine" in my head, which is annoying as he sings "Oww-gust-een". Brilliant. That will be in my head all night. Preferably to Vanessa Paradis' "Joe le Taxi", which I've entertained all afternoon. Akira's fault.

Post well due. Here are thoughts of recent times.

As a result of recent correspondence with the MET I have mistakenly been appointed to a position of Senior Lecturer. Wonder if they'll realise the error. I won't inform them of course - as punishment only.

My sunflowers are not as tall as everyone else's. Rah. But they are quite lovely nonetheless.

I caught Steve schmoozing with some passers by the other day. I felt betrayed and as if the politics I have become involved with in his defense* has been a waste. The tabby who lives nextdoor has started talking to me, which is nice, but I do still remain loyal to Steve. Dave is well, thanks for asking, as is Cromwell, despite being a little upset that I shut him in the lounge on Saturday night so he couldn't come to bed. I was in bad books.

I've finished thesis draft 1. It even includes pretentious poetry as a preface (not self written, though). That is quite try-hard, I admit, but I quite like poetry these days. Especially the therapeutic quality of writing limericks instead of working. Limerick competition postings to follow shortly.

A product of spending a lot of time writing, lately, is that I occasionally have ideas about sleep and dreaming that I think are revolutionary. I feel like everything fits into place and that my thesis is worthwhile. That spurs me on work-wise, so I just write write write. I become so immersed in what I'm doing that I forget to ensure that I should remember any of it, so the next day I will honestly have no recollection whatsoever what I have been doing. Some days later I will come across whatever I was writing about and realise that it was a bit wanky and, surprisingly, not as revolutionary as it felt at the time. So I start again. I am going to blame this cycle for my current frequent amnesia, which is actually becoming quite troubling.

I've joined a fantasy football league for the first time and I am enjoying it immensely. It's not too late to join, in case anyone's interested, although team Moon Dreams and their aubergine strip finery may kick your ass. Please enquire if interested.

So the nation warms to simple, honest individuals, if BB is to teach us anything. People of brain are boring, snobbish and unable to entertain themselves by joining in with pool-related "woohoo"ing.**

This has been mentioned in a previous post (by Lord G, I think): sleep paralysis. It's happened a few times lately. The plus side is that it's a good excuse for a lie-in (as I physically cannot get up). The downside is that it's quite terrifying. I know I need to wake, but am unable to. In this hypnopompic state (in a weird dream state whilst waking) I can't let go of the dream, but am trying to. This results in partial lucidity, whereby I know I ought to wake and move, but I know I can't, so I have to return to the dream. Quite an odd one.

Sun's been nice then. However I think we've had enough. I'm ready to welcome SAD with open arms. Pretty much. I had a lovely weekend lunching with friends in the sun. Now all my weekends are booked until October, by which time there will certainly be no more sun.

I have become an evangelical vegetarian again, as opposed to a silent vegetarian which I have been ever since about the age of 18 (when sitting next to someone at formal dinners in Durham would likely result in the vegetarianism debate, and them finding it amusing to put steak near my face. Wankers). Eating meat is wrong wrong wrong. At least if you ever pay <£3 for a chicken, as it costs at least that to fully rear a chicken in semi decent conditions. I dread to think where nandos and Tesco get their chickens from.

I feel that finishing the PhD and starting a new job should be a good excuse to make a fresh start in terms of lifestyle. I am going to learn to drive at last, but I fear two things: 1) that it won't be as enjoyable or freeing as when I drive in my dreams, where I'm actually quite good, too. And 2) that I might want to get a car if I manage to drive. I like being an eco-warrior without one. I suppose if National Express make it unaffordable to travel around as of December (when they take over GNER, not because I am partial to the coach) I'll reconsider. However my senior lecturer's salary should soon remove concerns over transport costs.

I think that's plenty for now.

Moon.xxx


*Politics includes encouraging sweet tabby who lives nextdoor not to fall out with Steve, even though tabby lives nextdoor (therefore have privileged garden access rights) and Steve lives nextdoor but one.

**Source: BBLB, 14th August 2007.