Clouded Judgement

Ugh the very idea of The Cloud makes my skin crawl. Photoshop-ing family snaps? Whatever next? Maybe whiten Rover’s teeth while you’re at it? Make the baby look a wee bit cuter? ‘The cloud gives me the family nature never could.’ Anyone else have a massive problem with this? Airbrushing means that Kate Moss could be a Vogue cover girl when she’s ninety but I draw my personal line at making what should be a genuine, happy family moment appear more ‘perfect’ to outsiders. There are few adverts that make me growl at the TV screen but this, my friends, is one of them. Gross

http://www.microsoft.com/showcase/en/us/details/8f01d2e5-0c99-4780-9d1d-e40000179b0e

Total F$#*ing Losers

Sometimes I wish I was a little more daring. I received this letter from Mike Brown ahead of the strike today:

Dear Miss Pal,

I am writing to let you know that the RMT and TSSA unions have called a 24 hour strike on the Tube next week. If the strike goes ahead, there is likely to be disruption to Tube services from early evening on Sunday 3 October and throughout Monday 4 October.

We will keep as many stations open as possible and will run as many trains as we safely can. Please check before you travel to see how services are affected.

We expect all other TfL services, including London Overground, DLR and Tramlink, to run as normal, but they may be busier than usual. In addition, extra Bus and River services will be in operation. Cycling or walking may also be practical options for many.

For the latest information and help planning your journeys, visit tfl.gov.uk


Yours sincerely,

Mike Brown
Managing Director
London Underground

And immediately wrote this in a sarcasm-imbued fury:

Dear Mike,

It would be infinitely more practical if you refrained from striking again but thanks for the notice. I will prepare myself to place my face in multiple human crevices on Monday morning, I do so enjoy paying for this consistent service.

Kind regards,

Bianca

Alas I did not have the balls to send it. It took me nearly three hours to get to work this morning and I am limbering up for a two hour walk home (I simply cannot face another bus or train).

TFL Irony

It's always pretty funny to see what Transport for London will think of next. In this case I took a trip on one of the 'spacious carriages' and couldn't quite believe the barefaced cheek of the signage claims. The hilarity continued when the announcer assured us that there was a 'good service on all London Undergound lines' after I had had to wait for three trains to pass previously - they were too busy for me to get on. Hardly what constitutes a 'good service' in my book.

Broken Laptop, Broken Heart

Sorry for the late posting of Madrid-related images, or anything else for that matter. My laptop has gone and died on me and I am writing this to you from a dear friend's machine. Despite my 'buy this designer bag' and 'buy these designer shoes' advice, I have no collateral of my own and therefore cannot even afford to replace said laptop. I will beg, borrow and steal technology as I attempt to get my old love fixed/replaced but in the meantime, please bear with me gorgeous reader! Apple, if any of you are reading this, please, please, please give me a shiny new I-Book for free - I will make it well worth your while...

The Lady Doth Protest

Picture the scene: it is early evening and I am returning to the big smoke after a lovely weekend in the countryside. There I enjoyed a long walk across fields and hills with my dog-over turnstiles and muddy patches we jumped. I managed to get actual fresh air into my polluted lungs. When I blew my nose there was no darkness, no traces of smog to be found in my Kleenex. I hopped off the train at Marylebone, feeling refreshed and full of joy and happiness.

This delirium lasted for around ten minutes: until I descended into the evil arms of London’s underground hell. I deal with rush hour every single weekday. On a Sunday evening, I do not expect nor do I want to encounter anything even close to the same volume of people. Why, oh why did no one warn me that Manchester United and someone else (white jersey? Who cares?) were to be playing their ghastly game of football.

There were so many people, there were hundreds of tourists, a ton of drunk tourists, a mass of loud, aggressive, drunk tourists. My poor little Delsey suitcase and I weaved our way through the masses. Obviously things natural to us Londoners (walk the right way up the stairs, don’t stand on the left hand side of an escalator like a fucking idiot) are totally foreign to folk like this. We vaulted over a pile of (I’ll hazard a guess here) alcohol-induced puke and onto Platform 5-the platform that was to transport us to the (relative) safety of Kings Cross. Alas, our plan was to be foiled: too many football supporters. Back to Platform 3 we went, the loudspeaker telling us that a train was eagerly awaiting our arrival, again to take us where we needed to go. What the tinny voice didn’t mention was that this train was also full to bursting with moronic drunkards. Noooo. Oh was there leering? Were there cat calls? Yes, yes, yes there were plenty. A policeman chuckled with amusement at my frustrated Viking-style battle cry.

Ironically, in an area of London filled with possibly the highest concentration of men I have ever seen (except for certain parts of Soho), not one single oaf offered to help me carry Delsey up the stairs (any one of the five times would have been a massive help)-they were far too busy staring at/trying to grope my poor aching backside. Too busy gloating to each other. Also, while we are on the subject, it is not ‘your’ team that won. No. You do not own it, nor (clearly) do you play for it so do not have the audacity to claim that your fat, unhelpful, lazy, beer-soaked arse did anything whatsoever to aid in the goals scored, the game won for I assure you it did not. The whacking great amount of money you paid for a season ticket might have been enough to buy a footballer’s wife a new pair of Choos. Feel good about it. And please don’t feel the need to hurry back.

Like a Phoenix from the Flames (Possibly)

This New Year, like every other before it, I have drawn up a veritable hot-list of resolutions just made to be broken by mid January. It does not help that these are made on New Year’s Eve, by far drunkest time in most peoples’ calendars.

The first (and arguably the most important of them all) of my resolutions was made outside a club, in a fag-balanced-on-lip-and-holding-another stance: give up smoking. A friend recently (and very cautiously!) pointed out that phrasing this resolution as ‘giving up’ was to imply that the thing being renounced had started life as something good. Really, she chided, smoking was not all it was cracked up to be. “How would you know?” I muttered ominously, violently sucking on a biro.

Giving anything up cold turkey is difficult-for someone with all the willpower of a limp towel its damn near impossible. I decided phase one was to stop smoking during the day, a sort of desperate bid to return to the early, honeymoon stage of my addiction: social smoking. This one’s actually going quite well except I do find I have started to go out a little more and stay out a lot later…

This brings me to the second of my top three resolutions (I’m going to stop at three: it would take far too long to detail the other ten!). On an average 2008 night out, I could be found safely tucked up in Shoreditch’s Kebab Zero by 3.00am. That glorious ship has sailed: it’s ‘goodbye’ succulent, alcohol-quelling lamb Doner and ‘hello’ fresh green beans etc. Excellent. Try pairing a lack of deliciously un-healthy food with a shortage of 20 Marlborough Lights in your pocket. It really is a recipe for disaster-and that’s without a monthly bout of PMT.

Lastly, because I like to really rub myself up the wrong way, I have started to exercise again. This is an interesting one: no matter how many new exercise DVDs are advertised, I always return to my old faithful: Elle Macpherson’s ‘The Body Workout’. My routine is simple. I watch a bit of Elle in all her annoyingly toned, tanned glory and then jump around like an uncoordinated (pale) gazelle. My housemate who lives in the room below mine then gets concerned for the welfare of his ceiling. After a while, I get bored and sit on my bed for the remainder of the tape (to be truthful there is more sitting than jumping involved). But do not fear: I have more determination than this nonsense. After repeating the aforementioned routine at least twice in one week (for one week) I then decide that the tape is not working and join a local gym. I go for at least two months (last year it was three!) then either move house or just stop going, whichever comes first. I finish up by whinging about how difficult it is to cancel a gym membership to anyone who’ll listen: at least they then know that I once, albeit many months ago, frequented a place of exercise.

I think 2009 could be the year that I achieve at least one of these three hallowed goals. It really has to be: I have made the same ones for a very long time. Another option is to do as the sensible do: invent a need to give up something I don’t do: perhaps next year this could be smoking…or eating rubbish food…or exercising more…or…