Sometimes I don’t blog, because nothing of even mild interest has occurred.
But maybe that defeats the point of a blog. (I was listening to someone reading their old diary on a podcast and it re-inspired me.)
I’m hardly aiming to be useful or helpful or astute or wise or even to feed any literary ambitions. WordPress keeps correcting my grammar, spelling and tells me not to use ‘passive voice’. Like whatevas. I don’t even know what that means.
Clearly WordPress doesn’t think highly of my literary ambitions. (Quite rightly so – although on a side rant – I fundamentally disagree with people who are uptight about spelling and use of grammar. It’s boring. It has nothing to do with content or ideas. It’s just journalistic stuck up nonsense. And I don’t care about American spelling either. So there. Literary ambitions be damned)
Maybe I should just document my life, because the day-to-day is nice. (Well, not ‘nice’, but it’s there).
The things of mild interest I’ll probably remember anyway, why bother to write them down? But the boring shit, that’s the meat, as it were, of my life, and it’ll be erased from memory in a matter of days and weeks, much less, years.
So maybe, instead I should just blog, like a diary, largely dull, mostly badly written and essentially stupid.
If I had any readers I’d be worried, but luckily there is only Ratna, and maybe Leo (only because I forced him to subscribe via email – that’s a good friend!)
So here goes.
Woke up, late. Tired as anything and with a stress knot in my stomach. I spent 15 minutes minus-ing 10 minutes off the alarm I set ahead, to stretch as much as possible how long I could lie in bed. It’s a perfect art, this kind of mental torture. I know I’ll be late, being late stresses me and the 15 extra minutes in bed detract nothing from my general tiredness, but I can’t seem to will my body out of the bed.
Still not talking to the ex, who has not yet apologized about being disrespectful and downright abusive. No doubt the incident was ‘my fault’. No doubt, in the ex’s mind, it’s up to me to apologize.
The ex quite literally finds sorry to be the hardest word. I’ve rarely if ever heard it used.
Anyway that cold war doesn’t help of course. Perhaps the ex will just throw me out of the house like the threat. I won’t be able to move until my visa application is successfully renewed. I hate house hunting. It’s very tiring. Tiresome? or Tiring? Both. Yes.
I couldn’t sleep well last night worrying about my bank statements. Every time I tried I had horrible visions of not having the paperwork for my visa and it being refused. It made my stomach churn in a disturbing way.
I wanted all my T’s crossed and I’s dotted for my visa application, and even though I’ve done this almost every year I can’t seem to make it any less stressful. I ordered my bank statements last week as part of the rigorous document evidence required by the Border Agency, except the bank sent me the wrong statements. And now there isn’t enough time really to wait for 7 days for new statements – or if there is, its cut-o-cut! Exclamation marks!
So I spent all Monday morning calling and pleading and begging for bank statements. Urgent, this is urgent! Please help me. I can’t wait for 10 days (Seriously, I can’t!). I called all the Lloyds TSB numbers I had in my phone in the hope that their response would change. It didn’t. Why does it take 4 days to print a hand full of statements? Why can’t you just go to a bank and print an official statement? Why are banks so useless? Why is the border agency so fussy? Why man, why?
Lying in bed I kept calculating the number of days till my visa expires and the number of days it would take to get my bank statements – adding days for delays, then subtracting days assuming no delays and just all round winding myself up.
My boss also made a mistake in my payslips. So along with me, he was stressing about that – the accountant wasn’t able to correct the error without re-issuing the entire company’s payslips. There was a lot of calling back and forth last week about this issue.
The last thing I thought of before I fell asleep was remembering reading in the form that if I had applied before I wouldn’t have to re-submit evidence. I didn’t trust the form of course. The border agency is always trying to trick people. They want your application to fail. So I made a mental note to verify this fact in the morning, and with that plan firmly in mind, the churning stopped and I could sleep.
So today I sat outside on the street with my papers spread out in front of me, in front of a school gate (the only spot on the street that had any sun), smoking and calling the Border agency help line. Twice. The first time was a guy with a heavy Nigerian accent. Due to the large amount of correspondence I receive from various Nigerian princes’, I didn’t trust his advice. So I hung up, waited a second and got an English guy. He spoke less clearly than the Nigerian and was irritable. When I said I didn’t understand him, he repeated what he said in that slow-you-are-a-retard sort of way which pissed me right off. So I did that right back to him.
The Border Agency also changed the form for my visa 3 times within the last 2 months on the website – so I had to re-do my 50 page application during my lunch break. I felt better about the lack of bank statements and payslips. Turns out all that worry was for nothing (fingers crossed, that this is correct) and I don’t need any of that stuff. Yay! Thank you Jesus Amen Hallelujah Mashallah Blessed be.
The intern at work is very against religion. It was the third or fourth time the discussion came up. He clearly wants someone to talk to or argue with. He pissed off my French catholic pregnant co-worker (that’s a mouthful) who told him to shut up when he started saying the pope was ridiculous (I agree, especially his outfit), then he said all religion was ridiculous, especially organized ones (I don’t really care until they start covering up pedos, banning contraception and defining where a woman’s place in life ought to be) and that none of it made any sense or was logical. And that in the future he believes we would have no religion.
J. sat on him promptly, so did MD by saying what others believe and what he believes are entirely relative. A2 more reasonably argued that civilisation wasn’t yet in any position to remove religion without having something to replace it. I really think the intern ought to do a philosophy degree or maybe theology. But he’s only interested in computer games. And maths.
Didn’t finish my goal of designing a product page for an ecommerce site, because one of the A’s set a deadline for amendments for an iPad app we’re doing (for very little money). I wanted to leave at 6:30 to draw, but A1 wanted to talk out the structure of how the app would be sold so ended up leaving the office at 7:16pm. Then I started to blog. So goodbye drawing.
Re-read a Barbara Cartland on the tube home. I’ve going through all of them again, one by one. It’s very relaxing. It is my lifetime goal to own all 700 books. Until then I’ll have to re-read.
Got home by 8. I feel sticky and tired and my face looks stressed and haggard and ugly and I feel it. But it largely looks the same in the morning, which is terribly disappointing. Saw the most beautiful teenager on the bus on Sunday. She looked like a Russian model and was dressed like a baby Anna Wintour – plush, expensive, glamorous and cold as ice. I knew she was a teen only because I could see a gleam of metal on her teeth.
I looked at my reflection in a round fish eye mirrors above the bus back door and realised I was haggard and ugly and my skin was dreadful and my hair was rubbish. And I was old. Then I tried not to stare at the beautiful girl in envy.
Cold war still seems to be on.