It's been a week since I touched my lips to her. A week of longing, desire, and not having her constantly by my side for succour when I need it. She was my escape, my bolt hole for times of procrastination.
She was good for my soul, but bad for my heart.
My friends, aside from a select few, abhorred her. She wasn't welcome, and if I was going to be in her company I'd have to absent myself rather than bring her to them.
Having said goodbye to her, however, I feel better for it, mentally if not physically.
My Lady Nicotine, you and I are through. Love you as I did, on and off for years, it's time to move on. I know I've said it before and you've lured me back, but I'm not nineteen and bulletproof any longer, and you're a bad influence on my health.
I'll miss you at parties and social gatherings, when I used you as an excuse to escape to a quiet corner and be free of the crowd. I miss you when I load new mail in my inbox each morning; remember how I ran to you before having to cope with the insistent demands of up to 50 new messages (excluding spam)? I miss you when I need ideas; those minutes we spent together gave me solutions to problems, plots to write and much more.
Broken hearts mend over time, but not if they're physically damaged. This emotional need, these cravings, will go. Farewell, my Lady!
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Those black disc things
A few years ago when I was visiting Adelaide, where my husband was based when we started going out, we got chatting with his next door neighbour, a guy in his early 30s. Ben, the neighbour, had never seen a 7" 45rpm record.
I was stunned. Then I thought, yes, OK, CDs came onto the market in the mid 80s. If he had parents who weren't really into music the entire generational thing about 7" singles may have passed him by.
My husband promptly produced his haul of 7" singles, some of which were his own from the early 70s and some his Mum's from the early to mid 60s. The Beatles, Petula Clark, Deep Purple... all deliciously poppy and scratchy when he played them for Ben, who was watching the little black discs spin with a rather mesmerised if not bemused expression on his face.
His main comment was that the sound quality wasn't great with all the noisy pops and crackles.
"That's probably because my Mum used to wipe the records like this to get the dust off." He demonstrated wiping a record on the bum of his jeans. "She also used to wash them with soap and water."
I too have a collection of 45s and 33s, although I did turf a lot of them out years ago and sold some more on eBay; music I was no longer interested in and had heard to death in the 70s and 80s.
But it's nothing like my Mum, the Hoarder Extraordinaire.
I was at her place this morning, dropping some groceries off and sitting down for a cuppa and a hot cross bun (oops, sorry diet!). She mentioned that she'd like me to have a look in one of her cupboards for an old portable record player she bought in the late 60s or early 70s. She had a hankering to play some of her 78s she hadn't listened to in decades.
I remember the record player. It was essentially 'mine' as I was a bit rough with my records not to mention the 'radiogram' we had to play them on. The radiogram was an elegant bit of late 40s/early 50s furniture, with French polished louvres on either side. One side had a long wave/medium wave/short wave radio which could, if the weather was right, pick up overseas stations. It was one of those radios which showed the station names. Underneath was storage for records; the louvres were the front of a hinged door which swung to the left.
On the right hand side, one would pull the louvres towards oneself and reveal the miracle that was the turntable. It was state of the art for its time and you could load as many as five records on the top, and the arm would only let them down one at a time to play. Of course this did nothing for preserving the records themselves - those at the bottom with others playing on top of them - and probably added to their character with scratches, but it meant you could load up either 15 or 20 minutes' worth of 78s or a couple hours' worth of 33s.
Everything about the turntable was automatic. Select the size and speed, press the button and off it went, the arm swinging across to gently deposit the needle in the right place. It switched itself off after the last record had been played, too, the arm arcing smoothly back and lowering itself onto its resting place. For a small child like me it was a joy to watch in action.
So Mum was worried about me messing about with it - you COULD choose tracks manually - and bought a cheap one for me to muck around with.
We didn't listen to many of the 78s on the radiogram; it was built in an era that meant you had to put a new needle in every few records if you were playing 78s. And of course 78s required a different, slightly thicker needle than 33s or 45s. The portable record player played 78s too and - get this, oh wow! - you simply flicked a switch under the arm from one side to the other to flip the needle bit over from a 33/45 needle to a 78 needle. The 78 needle was made of sterner stuff being more modern and could play 78s until you noticed it started to sound pretty awful.
I forget what finally happened to the radiogram. I suspect it went to charity in the 1980s along with another radiogram Mum had been given by a neighbour, which wasn't quite as elegant.
But the portable record player was sitting in the cupboard, hidden behind pillows and cushions. I wasn't surprised to find it. Mum's cupboards have a Tardis-like quality about them. If you took everything out of them I really think you mightn't be able to get it all back in again.
I plugged the player in, switched it on, attached its speakers (only one was working) and played one of my old 70s records. The sound quality was shite because the speakers were appalling (or speaker, singular, all 4 inches of it).
Mum's collection of 78s sits in a rack in a sideboard in her living room. Records were treasured things when she bought them. During WWII like most things they were rationed. "You'd hear on the radio that Palings had records in stock," she said. "And you'd queue up for them. They cost 2/6. That was a lot of money then considering most peoples' wages were only a couple of pounds."
Even today her 78s - brittle, not flexible like vinyl - are carefully stored in a numbered rack called a Platterack. Stuck at the end is the important bit of paper saying which record is in which slot, carefully printed by Mum with a fountain pen more than 50 years ago. They are a time capsule of the 40s and 50s, the earlier ones cataloguing Mum's teenaged tastes in music. There aren't many of them either - each one would have been saved up for and chosen with care. I hadn't heard any of these old friends for years. I used to like listening as a kid: Glenn Miller's American Patrol, obviously a wartime purchase, Twelfth Street Rag, Charles Trenet's La Mer, Music Music Music, and cheerful foxtrots and dance tunes. Once I discovered the Top 40 I wasn't much interested in Mum's old music though!
We pulled out La Mer as it was at the easily accessible end of the rack, and old Charles T got his first airing in about 40 years. I have the song myself on CD and wasn't surprised at how much detail you couldn't hear in the old 78; the cheap record player and speakers didn't help either. Still, it was fun to get the whole Platterack out and play a few more.
There's something about records which still gives me a little glimmer of excitement when I put them on the turntable. For my own record collection it was taking them reverently out of their sleeves for the first time, studying the label in the centre then and gently, ever so gently, placing the needle in the groove. That first playing - so crisp, so clear! The sleeves themselves with their artwork and notes. I'd try to keep them looking as pristine as possible and hated them getting bent corners. You just don't get the same thrill with digital downloads. (But oh how I love my iPod and the possibility of storing hours of music in one seamlessly-playing place.)
These days Mum has a CD collection of light classical, opera and easy listening. Quite a few of the songs on her 78s she also has on CD. She has a small retro vintage CD and turntable + radio which interestingly enough bears a mild resemblance to the old radiogram in terms of colour and old-style design, but is about 1/6 the size. It has a 78rpm setting, but no special needle for 78s - as she found out after she bought it a few years ago. Mum is dismissive: "People these days just don't know that 78s require a different needle."
Next time I go over there I'll have a better look through the 78s collection; at first glance today they are in great condition. The labels are still as fresh and bright as the day they were stuck on. Some have little stamps on them. There's a elegance about them that I love. It's just a shame they sound so shite!
Mum wasn't keen to keep playing her old records today though. I suspect she's got used to the cleaner sound of CDs and realises that nostalgia sometimes isn't what it used to be. Who knows, I might be clambering up the ladder again next week to put the old record player back in the cupboard!
I was stunned. Then I thought, yes, OK, CDs came onto the market in the mid 80s. If he had parents who weren't really into music the entire generational thing about 7" singles may have passed him by.
My husband promptly produced his haul of 7" singles, some of which were his own from the early 70s and some his Mum's from the early to mid 60s. The Beatles, Petula Clark, Deep Purple... all deliciously poppy and scratchy when he played them for Ben, who was watching the little black discs spin with a rather mesmerised if not bemused expression on his face.
His main comment was that the sound quality wasn't great with all the noisy pops and crackles.
"That's probably because my Mum used to wipe the records like this to get the dust off." He demonstrated wiping a record on the bum of his jeans. "She also used to wash them with soap and water."
I too have a collection of 45s and 33s, although I did turf a lot of them out years ago and sold some more on eBay; music I was no longer interested in and had heard to death in the 70s and 80s.
But it's nothing like my Mum, the Hoarder Extraordinaire.
I was at her place this morning, dropping some groceries off and sitting down for a cuppa and a hot cross bun (oops, sorry diet!). She mentioned that she'd like me to have a look in one of her cupboards for an old portable record player she bought in the late 60s or early 70s. She had a hankering to play some of her 78s she hadn't listened to in decades.
I remember the record player. It was essentially 'mine' as I was a bit rough with my records not to mention the 'radiogram' we had to play them on. The radiogram was an elegant bit of late 40s/early 50s furniture, with French polished louvres on either side. One side had a long wave/medium wave/short wave radio which could, if the weather was right, pick up overseas stations. It was one of those radios which showed the station names. Underneath was storage for records; the louvres were the front of a hinged door which swung to the left.
On the right hand side, one would pull the louvres towards oneself and reveal the miracle that was the turntable. It was state of the art for its time and you could load as many as five records on the top, and the arm would only let them down one at a time to play. Of course this did nothing for preserving the records themselves - those at the bottom with others playing on top of them - and probably added to their character with scratches, but it meant you could load up either 15 or 20 minutes' worth of 78s or a couple hours' worth of 33s.
Everything about the turntable was automatic. Select the size and speed, press the button and off it went, the arm swinging across to gently deposit the needle in the right place. It switched itself off after the last record had been played, too, the arm arcing smoothly back and lowering itself onto its resting place. For a small child like me it was a joy to watch in action.
So Mum was worried about me messing about with it - you COULD choose tracks manually - and bought a cheap one for me to muck around with.
We didn't listen to many of the 78s on the radiogram; it was built in an era that meant you had to put a new needle in every few records if you were playing 78s. And of course 78s required a different, slightly thicker needle than 33s or 45s. The portable record player played 78s too and - get this, oh wow! - you simply flicked a switch under the arm from one side to the other to flip the needle bit over from a 33/45 needle to a 78 needle. The 78 needle was made of sterner stuff being more modern and could play 78s until you noticed it started to sound pretty awful.
I forget what finally happened to the radiogram. I suspect it went to charity in the 1980s along with another radiogram Mum had been given by a neighbour, which wasn't quite as elegant.
But the portable record player was sitting in the cupboard, hidden behind pillows and cushions. I wasn't surprised to find it. Mum's cupboards have a Tardis-like quality about them. If you took everything out of them I really think you mightn't be able to get it all back in again.
I plugged the player in, switched it on, attached its speakers (only one was working) and played one of my old 70s records. The sound quality was shite because the speakers were appalling (or speaker, singular, all 4 inches of it).
Mum's collection of 78s sits in a rack in a sideboard in her living room. Records were treasured things when she bought them. During WWII like most things they were rationed. "You'd hear on the radio that Palings had records in stock," she said. "And you'd queue up for them. They cost 2/6. That was a lot of money then considering most peoples' wages were only a couple of pounds."
Even today her 78s - brittle, not flexible like vinyl - are carefully stored in a numbered rack called a Platterack. Stuck at the end is the important bit of paper saying which record is in which slot, carefully printed by Mum with a fountain pen more than 50 years ago. They are a time capsule of the 40s and 50s, the earlier ones cataloguing Mum's teenaged tastes in music. There aren't many of them either - each one would have been saved up for and chosen with care. I hadn't heard any of these old friends for years. I used to like listening as a kid: Glenn Miller's American Patrol, obviously a wartime purchase, Twelfth Street Rag, Charles Trenet's La Mer, Music Music Music, and cheerful foxtrots and dance tunes. Once I discovered the Top 40 I wasn't much interested in Mum's old music though!
We pulled out La Mer as it was at the easily accessible end of the rack, and old Charles T got his first airing in about 40 years. I have the song myself on CD and wasn't surprised at how much detail you couldn't hear in the old 78; the cheap record player and speakers didn't help either. Still, it was fun to get the whole Platterack out and play a few more.
There's something about records which still gives me a little glimmer of excitement when I put them on the turntable. For my own record collection it was taking them reverently out of their sleeves for the first time, studying the label in the centre then and gently, ever so gently, placing the needle in the groove. That first playing - so crisp, so clear! The sleeves themselves with their artwork and notes. I'd try to keep them looking as pristine as possible and hated them getting bent corners. You just don't get the same thrill with digital downloads. (But oh how I love my iPod and the possibility of storing hours of music in one seamlessly-playing place.)
 |
| Mum's current CD/record player is rather like this |
Next time I go over there I'll have a better look through the 78s collection; at first glance today they are in great condition. The labels are still as fresh and bright as the day they were stuck on. Some have little stamps on them. There's a elegance about them that I love. It's just a shame they sound so shite!
Mum wasn't keen to keep playing her old records today though. I suspect she's got used to the cleaner sound of CDs and realises that nostalgia sometimes isn't what it used to be. Who knows, I might be clambering up the ladder again next week to put the old record player back in the cupboard!
Monday, April 2, 2012
Belt tightening in more ways than one
Earlier this year I embarked on The Clean and Lean Diet. Well, most of it. I didn't give up the glass of wine with dinner :-). Despite the wine I have managed to drop four kgs and am now within 2kgs of my goal weight. Woohoo! I'm the same weight I was in 1992. Mind you it's taken me three months where it should have taken about six weeks but what the heck. If dieting makes you miserable about the things you can't have it's not worth it; happiness should be part of every diet plan I reckon!
A key element of the C&L diet is having protein and vegetables at every meal, and the diet book naturally suggests go for organic. Not something I've been able to fulfil sadly as a) there aren't many organic options near where I live and b) it's really expensive. The 'protein at every meal' bit is expensive enough without sourcing organic versions of it, but I do buy from the fishmonger, butcher and greengrocer rather than the supermarket. Of course we're talking good meat, the pricey stuff, not sausages which are a no-no, full of the wrong kinds of fat. Chicken breasts. Lean steaks. And fish. (I suspect this is why wealthy people are often lean - they can afford the good grub and aren't stuck with sausages.)
However, I have dutifully got used to having baby spinach and rocket with my breakfast, sometimes raw, sometimes cooked. I am encouraged to eat up to half an avocado every day, as it's full of 'good' fat, which is no hardship as I adore avocados.
The thing I have really cut down on is sugar. Rather than nibble a biscuit (or, frankly, stuff it into my mouth and scoff it if I'm really peckish), I'll grab a handful of raw nuts instead. I confess to chocolate, good chocolate, say 20grams of dark Lindt, after dinner, but during the last week I've even cut that out and don't really miss it. Sadly sugar means fruit though, and I do LOVE fruit! Fruit the diet tells me is OK are berries such as blueberries. Yup, the expensive stuff again. The thinner the skin on the fruit, the less sugar it contains apparently. Melons and oranges are bad news.
Carbs I've cut down on too, as veggies have carbs in them and I'm doing OK only having bread, pasta, rice or potatoes once or twice a week.
And then there's the chewing. Chew everything at least twenty times, the book says. I've always been a fast eater. One of my friends years ago told me I eat like a dog! The C&L diet says that every meal should take at least twenty minutes to eat, but I've broken that rule too, mainly with hot breakfasts. Cold, congealed eggs and limp cold cooked spinach don't appeal. In fact I wouldn't eat them. Breakfast I still nosh into quite heartily, but I've noticed now that I finish my other meals a lot later than my husband. The 'eat like a dog' mantle is resting firmly on his shoulders. Even I have never seen anyone hoover up bacon and eggs like he does.
So all this is working, and it's really positive. This week getting on the scales has been the high point. (The tax news was obviously the low.) Finding that I had to tighten one of my belts a notch almost had me whooping out loud.
My crap tax news means that I can't buy clothing, shoes, books or music until I've got that debt out of the way.
The hard thing there, I may add, is not buying books! My love affair with books is a blog subject in itself. I think I have a book-buying addiction.
Clothing... heck, I've got a wardrobe crammed with the stuff, and now I make some of my clothes too. New clothes I don't need, but I will miss the challenge of being creative with fabric (fabric also coming under the banner of luxuries I can do without).
Shoes... again I have plenty. Too many - I did a cull again a couple of weeks ago of boots that don't fit right and shoes with not much wear because they're uncomfortable and handed in a big, stuffed-full carrier bag to Vinnies. I live in boots in winter and have boots I bought last year which still look new and are comfortable.
Music... well, I've been using iTunes now for ages to buy; it's cheaper than buying CDs. I don't buy a lot of music any more anyway. Certainly not Top 40 stuff but I do find some interesting jazz and folk on my cruises around the radio dial and have a hankering to hear it on demand rather than when it makes a radio playlist.
The one thing I'm not compromising on is the diet. Buying and eating meat and fish might be more expensive than sausages or simply turning veggie (there is only so much tofu I can take in a week), but losing weight is having a positive effect on my psyche and self-confidence. That's one thing the taxman is not taking away from me.
A key element of the C&L diet is having protein and vegetables at every meal, and the diet book naturally suggests go for organic. Not something I've been able to fulfil sadly as a) there aren't many organic options near where I live and b) it's really expensive. The 'protein at every meal' bit is expensive enough without sourcing organic versions of it, but I do buy from the fishmonger, butcher and greengrocer rather than the supermarket. Of course we're talking good meat, the pricey stuff, not sausages which are a no-no, full of the wrong kinds of fat. Chicken breasts. Lean steaks. And fish. (I suspect this is why wealthy people are often lean - they can afford the good grub and aren't stuck with sausages.)
However, I have dutifully got used to having baby spinach and rocket with my breakfast, sometimes raw, sometimes cooked. I am encouraged to eat up to half an avocado every day, as it's full of 'good' fat, which is no hardship as I adore avocados.
The thing I have really cut down on is sugar. Rather than nibble a biscuit (or, frankly, stuff it into my mouth and scoff it if I'm really peckish), I'll grab a handful of raw nuts instead. I confess to chocolate, good chocolate, say 20grams of dark Lindt, after dinner, but during the last week I've even cut that out and don't really miss it. Sadly sugar means fruit though, and I do LOVE fruit! Fruit the diet tells me is OK are berries such as blueberries. Yup, the expensive stuff again. The thinner the skin on the fruit, the less sugar it contains apparently. Melons and oranges are bad news.
Carbs I've cut down on too, as veggies have carbs in them and I'm doing OK only having bread, pasta, rice or potatoes once or twice a week.
And then there's the chewing. Chew everything at least twenty times, the book says. I've always been a fast eater. One of my friends years ago told me I eat like a dog! The C&L diet says that every meal should take at least twenty minutes to eat, but I've broken that rule too, mainly with hot breakfasts. Cold, congealed eggs and limp cold cooked spinach don't appeal. In fact I wouldn't eat them. Breakfast I still nosh into quite heartily, but I've noticed now that I finish my other meals a lot later than my husband. The 'eat like a dog' mantle is resting firmly on his shoulders. Even I have never seen anyone hoover up bacon and eggs like he does.
So all this is working, and it's really positive. This week getting on the scales has been the high point. (The tax news was obviously the low.) Finding that I had to tighten one of my belts a notch almost had me whooping out loud.
My crap tax news means that I can't buy clothing, shoes, books or music until I've got that debt out of the way.
The hard thing there, I may add, is not buying books! My love affair with books is a blog subject in itself. I think I have a book-buying addiction.
Clothing... heck, I've got a wardrobe crammed with the stuff, and now I make some of my clothes too. New clothes I don't need, but I will miss the challenge of being creative with fabric (fabric also coming under the banner of luxuries I can do without).
Shoes... again I have plenty. Too many - I did a cull again a couple of weeks ago of boots that don't fit right and shoes with not much wear because they're uncomfortable and handed in a big, stuffed-full carrier bag to Vinnies. I live in boots in winter and have boots I bought last year which still look new and are comfortable.
Music... well, I've been using iTunes now for ages to buy; it's cheaper than buying CDs. I don't buy a lot of music any more anyway. Certainly not Top 40 stuff but I do find some interesting jazz and folk on my cruises around the radio dial and have a hankering to hear it on demand rather than when it makes a radio playlist.
The one thing I'm not compromising on is the diet. Buying and eating meat and fish might be more expensive than sausages or simply turning veggie (there is only so much tofu I can take in a week), but losing weight is having a positive effect on my psyche and self-confidence. That's one thing the taxman is not taking away from me.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
I hate the tax man. How original is that?
Yesterday I saw my accountant to sign off on my company income tax for the previous financial year. I always leave it fairly late as I never have the money to pay the poor man! (Poor? Accountant? Well, you know what I mean)
I'd given him the books two weeks ago, confident that last FY I'd made a loss. I have a client who owes me around $13000 and most of that was for last FY. As I had to spend my own company's money buying resources for her such as stock photos it was looking good for a loss.
While most of us want our businesses to prosper, I'm in the uncomfortable situation of running a business with a low turnover despite my best intentions. A good year will see a turnover of $50K, out of which I have to pay bills, tax, and wages for myself. There is nothing, repeat nothing, left in the bank at the end of each financial year - or each month come to that. I do have a good regular client who pays me on the first of each month, and that's usually around $2700, which makes up the bulk of what I earn.
Given that cash flow is so tight the last thing I want to do is make a big profit as I'll get taxed to buggery. I always try for a loss or break even.
You can imagine my despair and astonishment when my accountant told me yesterday that I'd actually made $8K the year before.
"How?" I wailed.
I'm crap at anything mathematical and not great with Excel, my chosen software for my accounts. I'd added up my sales for the four quarters but apparently missed out one of the quarters. Curses!!!!
So now the tax man is going to slug me for $2118 straight away, as well as Notional Tax for the current financial year. The tax man assumes I'm going to make the same sort of profit this year - ha! I doubt it, Ill be spending too much on taxes! - and wants $679 a quarter, When I lodge my next BAS I'll be hit with a bill for $2037 for three lots of notional tax dating from 1 July 2011.
That's $4155 I don't have. I already owe $1332 for my BAS which was due on 28 March, but have $400 in the bank so won't be paying that until 1 April.
Then there are the accountant's fees of $1850. Luckily he lets me pay this off over several months.
It's an understatement to say I am extremely depressed today. I am tempted to lock up the knives and throw the key down the drain, just to be on the safe side.
It's bloody impossible for small businesses to get ahead, it really is, with the tax man slugging you for everything he can. Especially businesses with such a small turnover as mine. I did have some money put aside for tax earlier in the year but had such a lean January I had to use it to live on and pay regular bills with.
The only thing that stops me from winding up the company and getting a 'proper' job again is that my depression at the thought of having to leave the house and animals every day, toil away in an office with other people all around me, bound by KPIs, bosses, rules and regulations, hemmed in by traffic morning and night, moves up to suicide pitch.
Come on universe, send me a nice big juicy project from a client who is prepared to pay me what I'm worth rather than screw me down to rock bottom for a first-class job. Give us a $10K project, universe! Please?
I'd given him the books two weeks ago, confident that last FY I'd made a loss. I have a client who owes me around $13000 and most of that was for last FY. As I had to spend my own company's money buying resources for her such as stock photos it was looking good for a loss.
While most of us want our businesses to prosper, I'm in the uncomfortable situation of running a business with a low turnover despite my best intentions. A good year will see a turnover of $50K, out of which I have to pay bills, tax, and wages for myself. There is nothing, repeat nothing, left in the bank at the end of each financial year - or each month come to that. I do have a good regular client who pays me on the first of each month, and that's usually around $2700, which makes up the bulk of what I earn.
Given that cash flow is so tight the last thing I want to do is make a big profit as I'll get taxed to buggery. I always try for a loss or break even.
You can imagine my despair and astonishment when my accountant told me yesterday that I'd actually made $8K the year before.
"How?" I wailed.
I'm crap at anything mathematical and not great with Excel, my chosen software for my accounts. I'd added up my sales for the four quarters but apparently missed out one of the quarters. Curses!!!!
So now the tax man is going to slug me for $2118 straight away, as well as Notional Tax for the current financial year. The tax man assumes I'm going to make the same sort of profit this year - ha! I doubt it, Ill be spending too much on taxes! - and wants $679 a quarter, When I lodge my next BAS I'll be hit with a bill for $2037 for three lots of notional tax dating from 1 July 2011.
That's $4155 I don't have. I already owe $1332 for my BAS which was due on 28 March, but have $400 in the bank so won't be paying that until 1 April.
Then there are the accountant's fees of $1850. Luckily he lets me pay this off over several months.
It's an understatement to say I am extremely depressed today. I am tempted to lock up the knives and throw the key down the drain, just to be on the safe side.
It's bloody impossible for small businesses to get ahead, it really is, with the tax man slugging you for everything he can. Especially businesses with such a small turnover as mine. I did have some money put aside for tax earlier in the year but had such a lean January I had to use it to live on and pay regular bills with.
The only thing that stops me from winding up the company and getting a 'proper' job again is that my depression at the thought of having to leave the house and animals every day, toil away in an office with other people all around me, bound by KPIs, bosses, rules and regulations, hemmed in by traffic morning and night, moves up to suicide pitch.
Come on universe, send me a nice big juicy project from a client who is prepared to pay me what I'm worth rather than screw me down to rock bottom for a first-class job. Give us a $10K project, universe! Please?
Monday, March 19, 2012
The blessings of good neighbours
Friends of mine - The Whingies, whom I've mentioned before, have neighbour issues. All their neighbours, according to them, are bastards. They are surrounded by unthinking people who let their children have loud fun in their own swimming pool, or who are mean enough to have an afternoon BBQ and make noise.
What they don't consider is what their neighbours think of them, and I suspect the neighbours can't stand them and call them as many names behind their back as the Whingies do them. After all if you have five neighbouring properties on your boundary and the people therein are all bastards, that seems a little over the odds. Could it be that the common denominator, the people in the house in the middle, is the problem?
We are blessed, on the other hand, with lovely neighbours. So is my Mum - so much so in her case that her new neighbours invited her (and us) to a party two weeks ago that was really an insight into How The Other Half Lives. Money was no object and the Moet et Chandon flowed like water. It was great fun and I think the new neighbours had invited all the surrounding property owners along not just because they wanted to get to know them, but because they knew they were having a noisy bash, and best to include people rather than have them complain about the noise. It's a good strategy. It worked. We chatted to some other neighbours there and they were having as good a time as we were. Not that we could hear the music after we got back to Mum's anyway; we just crashed into bed.
Mum is a lovely person who has always made friends with her neighbours, even the nutter who used to live next door and drive his car over our lawn on odd occasions, or light bonfires full of rubbish outside our door when he knew I (as a little girl) was having a birthday party the same day. He was a bit mad, and everyone was at loggerheads with him except Mum, who was and is firm but nice.
Where we live now is a multicultural area, and out of the eight town houses in our complex, six of them are owned or tenanted by Indian families. We are on chatting terms with most of them - those around the back of the complex like us who we see just about every day going to and from work. We are good friends with one couple in particular and have dined at each other's houses or drop in for cups of tea. We have been sounding boards when my neighbour R wanted to rant about her husband's family who had behaved in a very rude and ungrateful manner. We help them with odd bits of DIY and they help us. R's husband K works for a major brewing company and when he decides he can't drink all his monthly freebie allowance of beer he'll drop some around to us. They have two adorable little boys, the elder of which is fascinated by our cats and likes to visit and talk to them.
Right next door to us new people moved in last year, a young Indian couple expecting their first baby, S & Mrs S (her name starts with S too). The baby was premature and it was touch and go for a while there. We got updates on the little boy's progress and were delighted to see him come home in January. They had planned a special celebration for when he turned three months old. They are Sikhs and there's a special three day ceremony where the main Sikh text is read from start to finish by Sikh priests; it takes all the three days, 24 hours of them. On the final day you have a feast when the reading is finished.
S told us about the ceremony on Friday and apologised in advance for all the cars that would be around over the weekend as people were coming for the ceremony. He then, to our surprise, invited us to the feast on Sunday. I had a suspicion that it may have been a case of "include people rather than have them complain about the noise"! On Sunday there were drums and lots of chanting. Anyway we said we'd be delighted to come, and R & K told us more about what to expect, and what to wear. Luckily I had some sari material I'd made into a dress and had a scarf in similar colours I could wear on my head. My husband wore a woolly scarf tied around his head as he doesn't own a bandanna, and looked vaguely piratical... or a pirate overfed and gone to seed!
All our neighbours were at the feast too, and they all have children under five. S & S's extended family were there, as well as many friends. I think there were about 40 people sitting on the floor, on the chairs, wherever, and we were the only two anglo-saxons there. I felt rather honoured that we had been invited. The ceremony of the food, the friendship, the laughter... it was a lovely day with everyone in their finery and everyone getting on with each other. We also had a good opportunity to chat more with some of our other neighbours and are now planning a night at the rugby together, six of us.
We are very blessed to have nice neighbours, but of course the behaviour of neighbours reflects on how you behave to them. If I tell Whingy about the ceremony she'll roll her eyes and ask how we coped with the chanting and drums, which would have driven her mad, or the small children running about (ditto mad). To be honest, we were having such a good time getting to know our neighbours better we didn't even notice.
What they don't consider is what their neighbours think of them, and I suspect the neighbours can't stand them and call them as many names behind their back as the Whingies do them. After all if you have five neighbouring properties on your boundary and the people therein are all bastards, that seems a little over the odds. Could it be that the common denominator, the people in the house in the middle, is the problem?
We are blessed, on the other hand, with lovely neighbours. So is my Mum - so much so in her case that her new neighbours invited her (and us) to a party two weeks ago that was really an insight into How The Other Half Lives. Money was no object and the Moet et Chandon flowed like water. It was great fun and I think the new neighbours had invited all the surrounding property owners along not just because they wanted to get to know them, but because they knew they were having a noisy bash, and best to include people rather than have them complain about the noise. It's a good strategy. It worked. We chatted to some other neighbours there and they were having as good a time as we were. Not that we could hear the music after we got back to Mum's anyway; we just crashed into bed.
Mum is a lovely person who has always made friends with her neighbours, even the nutter who used to live next door and drive his car over our lawn on odd occasions, or light bonfires full of rubbish outside our door when he knew I (as a little girl) was having a birthday party the same day. He was a bit mad, and everyone was at loggerheads with him except Mum, who was and is firm but nice.
Where we live now is a multicultural area, and out of the eight town houses in our complex, six of them are owned or tenanted by Indian families. We are on chatting terms with most of them - those around the back of the complex like us who we see just about every day going to and from work. We are good friends with one couple in particular and have dined at each other's houses or drop in for cups of tea. We have been sounding boards when my neighbour R wanted to rant about her husband's family who had behaved in a very rude and ungrateful manner. We help them with odd bits of DIY and they help us. R's husband K works for a major brewing company and when he decides he can't drink all his monthly freebie allowance of beer he'll drop some around to us. They have two adorable little boys, the elder of which is fascinated by our cats and likes to visit and talk to them.
Right next door to us new people moved in last year, a young Indian couple expecting their first baby, S & Mrs S (her name starts with S too). The baby was premature and it was touch and go for a while there. We got updates on the little boy's progress and were delighted to see him come home in January. They had planned a special celebration for when he turned three months old. They are Sikhs and there's a special three day ceremony where the main Sikh text is read from start to finish by Sikh priests; it takes all the three days, 24 hours of them. On the final day you have a feast when the reading is finished.
S told us about the ceremony on Friday and apologised in advance for all the cars that would be around over the weekend as people were coming for the ceremony. He then, to our surprise, invited us to the feast on Sunday. I had a suspicion that it may have been a case of "include people rather than have them complain about the noise"! On Sunday there were drums and lots of chanting. Anyway we said we'd be delighted to come, and R & K told us more about what to expect, and what to wear. Luckily I had some sari material I'd made into a dress and had a scarf in similar colours I could wear on my head. My husband wore a woolly scarf tied around his head as he doesn't own a bandanna, and looked vaguely piratical... or a pirate overfed and gone to seed!
All our neighbours were at the feast too, and they all have children under five. S & S's extended family were there, as well as many friends. I think there were about 40 people sitting on the floor, on the chairs, wherever, and we were the only two anglo-saxons there. I felt rather honoured that we had been invited. The ceremony of the food, the friendship, the laughter... it was a lovely day with everyone in their finery and everyone getting on with each other. We also had a good opportunity to chat more with some of our other neighbours and are now planning a night at the rugby together, six of us.
We are very blessed to have nice neighbours, but of course the behaviour of neighbours reflects on how you behave to them. If I tell Whingy about the ceremony she'll roll her eyes and ask how we coped with the chanting and drums, which would have driven her mad, or the small children running about (ditto mad). To be honest, we were having such a good time getting to know our neighbours better we didn't even notice.
Friday, March 9, 2012
The day of living angerously
No, I do mean angerously.
You see, I have a problem with anger management, or just anger in general. There are some days I just can't cope with the constant plop of emails in the inbox, clients phoning with urgent stuff (and they are ALWAYS the slow payers who have urgent stuff), computers running slowly, computers in general sometimes.
Yesterday was one of those days. Every time the phone rang I screamed "F*ck off!" at it before I picked it up. By lunchtime I'm sure my aura was black. I had a headache, my stomach was churning, I was feeling almost physically ill. At one point I found I was strangling myself with one hand while holding the phone in the other talking to a slow payer with urgent stuff. I tend to self-harm when I'm angry and impatient; usually I bite my arm but the strangling was a new and interesting diversion.
I'm trying to finish a large project for a client who DOES pay on time and can't cope with the interruptions. I've thought of turning on 'quiet time' and not answering the phones or emails but the thought of coming back to earth to more than 100 emails and half a dozen bloody phone messages makes me feel even sicker.
To make matters worse I'm running out of hard drive space and had to compress and chuck out some files yesterday in order to download some software plugins.
Even the dog was annoying me. Every time I got up for any reason, she was underfoot, ready to trip me. I did apologise to her for shouting at her.
I know anger is bad for the body and the soul, but when I'm stressed and up against a deadline I can't help it. Meditate, friends say, but for f*ck's sake WHEN!? I didn't have time yesterday, and I can't quite get into meditation. My brain looks at it as quiet time in which it can compose a to do list.
To cut a long story short I worked from 8am to 10pm yesterday. I had minimal meal breaks and just wanted to get shit finished. I had too many phone calls including one from a colleague who likes to talk for at least an hour. I can usually work at the same time by putting the phone on hands free so that wasn't too bad. She talked for nearly two. I can't really remember exactly what about but a lot of it was going around in circles on one issue. She's a sweet person and I did try and say I was busy but finally resorted to messaging my husband asking him to ring on the home phone to get me away.
By 5pm my fury had subsided; I played a game of chasing with the cats and the dog around the house, and that made me feel brighter and better.
There are times I truly hate computers, even though I'm lucky than many and own a Mac - much less stressful than a Windows machine. There are times I truly hate the human race, because I push myself as far and fast as I can to respond to the bastard bloody clients, I go above and beyond the call of duty, and still get paid crap money or none at all (still chasing the Scarlet Pimpernel). I am soooo NOT a people person.
You'd think by the tone of this post I'm still cranky but I'm not. Just thinking about the way I was yesterday - taut as a new wire fence - is channelling what I'm typing now.
It's Friday, 4.30pm local time. I still have tons to do for clients and two big websites to complete, one of which I got a lot furiously done on yesterday, but I have had it for today. I am worried about when I'm going to get the time to work on them though as weekdays are full of interruptions, which is why I work weekends too. This weekend I have to get my quarterly tax in order, another headache. God, I hate anything to do with numbers or accounts! And data entry.
It's probably lucky in a way that we are heading to my Mum's for Saturday night and staying over, as that will get me away from computers and work for a day or so. I don't need another day like yesterday, I'm sure it took a year or two off my life. I was fortunate in retrospect I didn't have a stroke or a heart attack.
I suspect my anger-day was also weather-related. It was pelting down outside and we have had the least sunshine in the last month we have had in years. I get testy and grumpy if I don't get a bit of sunshine on me at regular intervals. I wouldn't survive a Scandinavian winter, that's for sure (wonder if the murder/suicide rate goes up in Scandinavia during winter?)
Anyway, today is better. The weather is sunny and so am I. Wonder if I could make a living out of making marmalade?
You see, I have a problem with anger management, or just anger in general. There are some days I just can't cope with the constant plop of emails in the inbox, clients phoning with urgent stuff (and they are ALWAYS the slow payers who have urgent stuff), computers running slowly, computers in general sometimes.
Yesterday was one of those days. Every time the phone rang I screamed "F*ck off!" at it before I picked it up. By lunchtime I'm sure my aura was black. I had a headache, my stomach was churning, I was feeling almost physically ill. At one point I found I was strangling myself with one hand while holding the phone in the other talking to a slow payer with urgent stuff. I tend to self-harm when I'm angry and impatient; usually I bite my arm but the strangling was a new and interesting diversion.
I'm trying to finish a large project for a client who DOES pay on time and can't cope with the interruptions. I've thought of turning on 'quiet time' and not answering the phones or emails but the thought of coming back to earth to more than 100 emails and half a dozen bloody phone messages makes me feel even sicker.
To make matters worse I'm running out of hard drive space and had to compress and chuck out some files yesterday in order to download some software plugins.
Even the dog was annoying me. Every time I got up for any reason, she was underfoot, ready to trip me. I did apologise to her for shouting at her.
I know anger is bad for the body and the soul, but when I'm stressed and up against a deadline I can't help it. Meditate, friends say, but for f*ck's sake WHEN!? I didn't have time yesterday, and I can't quite get into meditation. My brain looks at it as quiet time in which it can compose a to do list.
To cut a long story short I worked from 8am to 10pm yesterday. I had minimal meal breaks and just wanted to get shit finished. I had too many phone calls including one from a colleague who likes to talk for at least an hour. I can usually work at the same time by putting the phone on hands free so that wasn't too bad. She talked for nearly two. I can't really remember exactly what about but a lot of it was going around in circles on one issue. She's a sweet person and I did try and say I was busy but finally resorted to messaging my husband asking him to ring on the home phone to get me away.
By 5pm my fury had subsided; I played a game of chasing with the cats and the dog around the house, and that made me feel brighter and better.
There are times I truly hate computers, even though I'm lucky than many and own a Mac - much less stressful than a Windows machine. There are times I truly hate the human race, because I push myself as far and fast as I can to respond to the bastard bloody clients, I go above and beyond the call of duty, and still get paid crap money or none at all (still chasing the Scarlet Pimpernel). I am soooo NOT a people person.
You'd think by the tone of this post I'm still cranky but I'm not. Just thinking about the way I was yesterday - taut as a new wire fence - is channelling what I'm typing now.
It's Friday, 4.30pm local time. I still have tons to do for clients and two big websites to complete, one of which I got a lot furiously done on yesterday, but I have had it for today. I am worried about when I'm going to get the time to work on them though as weekdays are full of interruptions, which is why I work weekends too. This weekend I have to get my quarterly tax in order, another headache. God, I hate anything to do with numbers or accounts! And data entry.
It's probably lucky in a way that we are heading to my Mum's for Saturday night and staying over, as that will get me away from computers and work for a day or so. I don't need another day like yesterday, I'm sure it took a year or two off my life. I was fortunate in retrospect I didn't have a stroke or a heart attack.
I suspect my anger-day was also weather-related. It was pelting down outside and we have had the least sunshine in the last month we have had in years. I get testy and grumpy if I don't get a bit of sunshine on me at regular intervals. I wouldn't survive a Scandinavian winter, that's for sure (wonder if the murder/suicide rate goes up in Scandinavia during winter?)
Anyway, today is better. The weather is sunny and so am I. Wonder if I could make a living out of making marmalade?
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
The button theory
Have you noticed that when you buy clothing these days it often comes with a spare button (assuming it has buttons in the first place)?
In days past this was an indicator of a posh item; something you'd keep and wear for years, a classic, and maybe at some stage you'd lose a button and lo! you had a spare stashed away in a drawer somewhere.
These days even cheaper clothing comes with a spare button; my Mum is impressed by this and thinks it means the clothing is well-made and posh. I disagree.
These days a spare button means that the clothing is invariably made in China, to a budget, and the cheapskates who make it don't sew the buttons on thoroughly. Thread costs money. Sewing buttons on takes time and THAT costs money too.
Take two cardigans I bought last year from Woolovers, a UK company which ships to Australia. I'd had trouble finding the style and blend of wool/merino/cashmere I wanted for a price I could afford. I got two items from Woolovers for $50 plus postage, and there wasn't a place in Australia that could match that. The website had a proud "British" feel to it and I figured the items were made in the UK. Nowhere on the website did it say the items were made in China, and it doesn't say on the jumpers themselves, but the little production tab inside boasts fonts that scream 'Made in China'. I've learned the signs over the years.
At first I was impressed that each item came with spare buttons. Maybe Woolovers set high standards for production, wherever in the world it was. However... the first time I wore one of the cardigans buttoned up, 50% of the buttons popped off over a five hour period. Luckily I was at home and every time I saw one missing I scanned the carpet until I found it. I resewed them all on and resewed the remainder too. They had originally had a scant couple of loops holding them in place.
The buttons on the other cardigan looked fine and as I had yet to wear it buttoned (it is a lightweight summer one) I didn't bother about restitching them all. I wore it today though and because the temperature dropped steadily from midday you can guess what happened. I buttoned up the top two buttons and found I was missing one of them by the time I got home from my meeting. It was nowhere to be found, probably squashed underfoot now at Top Ryde City Shopping Centre.
I have a little box full of spare buttons that belong to items of clothing I've bought over the last twenty years. Most of them I haven't needed but I've kept them in case they come in useful for a future sewing project. Luckily I had the corresponding button to the one I'd lost today nestled in the plethora of tiny plastic bags.
Tomorrow, when I'm awake and it's light outside I'll be sturdily sewing on every blasted button on that cardigan. When I sew buttons on the stitching outlasts the garment itself.
The thing that is really making me scratch my head now is my button box. It's almost like my Mum's. I delighted when I was little in playing with the buttons in her box - all shapes, sizes and colours, literally hundreds of them kept in an old tin that had once held posh chocolates. As a small girl I used to sort them according to shape or colour and it would keep me amused for hours, making patterns out of them on the floor and picking my favourites. She reused some of them for clothing and I'm sure they are a collector's dream, as she still has that box full of goodies dating back to heaven knows when - at least the 1940s. Sadly my collection isn't quite as eclectic as hers, my buttons not as fancy. But I bet hers never fell off her clothes!
In days past this was an indicator of a posh item; something you'd keep and wear for years, a classic, and maybe at some stage you'd lose a button and lo! you had a spare stashed away in a drawer somewhere.
These days even cheaper clothing comes with a spare button; my Mum is impressed by this and thinks it means the clothing is well-made and posh. I disagree.
These days a spare button means that the clothing is invariably made in China, to a budget, and the cheapskates who make it don't sew the buttons on thoroughly. Thread costs money. Sewing buttons on takes time and THAT costs money too.
Take two cardigans I bought last year from Woolovers, a UK company which ships to Australia. I'd had trouble finding the style and blend of wool/merino/cashmere I wanted for a price I could afford. I got two items from Woolovers for $50 plus postage, and there wasn't a place in Australia that could match that. The website had a proud "British" feel to it and I figured the items were made in the UK. Nowhere on the website did it say the items were made in China, and it doesn't say on the jumpers themselves, but the little production tab inside boasts fonts that scream 'Made in China'. I've learned the signs over the years.
At first I was impressed that each item came with spare buttons. Maybe Woolovers set high standards for production, wherever in the world it was. However... the first time I wore one of the cardigans buttoned up, 50% of the buttons popped off over a five hour period. Luckily I was at home and every time I saw one missing I scanned the carpet until I found it. I resewed them all on and resewed the remainder too. They had originally had a scant couple of loops holding them in place.
The buttons on the other cardigan looked fine and as I had yet to wear it buttoned (it is a lightweight summer one) I didn't bother about restitching them all. I wore it today though and because the temperature dropped steadily from midday you can guess what happened. I buttoned up the top two buttons and found I was missing one of them by the time I got home from my meeting. It was nowhere to be found, probably squashed underfoot now at Top Ryde City Shopping Centre.
I have a little box full of spare buttons that belong to items of clothing I've bought over the last twenty years. Most of them I haven't needed but I've kept them in case they come in useful for a future sewing project. Luckily I had the corresponding button to the one I'd lost today nestled in the plethora of tiny plastic bags.
Tomorrow, when I'm awake and it's light outside I'll be sturdily sewing on every blasted button on that cardigan. When I sew buttons on the stitching outlasts the garment itself.
The thing that is really making me scratch my head now is my button box. It's almost like my Mum's. I delighted when I was little in playing with the buttons in her box - all shapes, sizes and colours, literally hundreds of them kept in an old tin that had once held posh chocolates. As a small girl I used to sort them according to shape or colour and it would keep me amused for hours, making patterns out of them on the floor and picking my favourites. She reused some of them for clothing and I'm sure they are a collector's dream, as she still has that box full of goodies dating back to heaven knows when - at least the 1940s. Sadly my collection isn't quite as eclectic as hers, my buttons not as fancy. But I bet hers never fell off her clothes!
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