Flatmates from hell...

So someone on Twitter was asking for flat-mate horror stories and I tweeted, ‘I had one who used to shoot at people out the window –does that count?  And the one who moved his entire family into the living room.’

And he said, 'Go on...' And then I kept remembering others who were worse.  Far worse.  And went hurtling back down memory lane again. And figured I needed a list. 

My top ten worst flat-mates.

So, in no particular order, here you have it.

1. The One Who Shot Things Out The Window.  tbf, it was only an air rifle and he mainly shot rats and rabbits (to eat).  Unless he forgot his meds or someone pissed him off.  Also in possession of three ferrets.

2. The One Who Took Over the Living Room.  Lovely guy, really lovely, but one day I came back to find his sister living in the living room.  ‘Just for a bit,’ he said.  She was swiftly joined by his girlfriend, his parents and their cat.  It got mighty crowded in there.   And a trifle smelly.  

      3. The One Who Tried To Kill Me While I Lay Sleeping in My Bed.  Lovely girl.  Just a trifle unhinged.  One night she stormed into my bedroom and laid about my head with a Paul Masson carafe of wine (empty).  Scary as hell.  The choice of wine, that is.  

Yes, like this...but with wine in it.

      4. The One Who Gobbed.  Nasty little toe-rag.  Used to stand at the top of the stair and fire gobs at the bike parked in the hallway.  Also cheated on the phone bill.  Young Conservative (an oxymoron, surely?).  Worst of all, wore really bad jeans.

      

      5. The One Who Saw Ghosts.  Put the fear of gods into everyone with her mediumistic powers. I mean, how do you concentrate on having a crap when you’ve been told the toilet is haunted by a six foot tall male ghost?  It’s…offputting.     

This is a bona fide toilet ghost.

      6. The One Who Was Too Right-On.  Once again, dead nice just… worthy.  House became full of enormous art installations with titles like ‘The Bleeding Womb’.  My high heels were sacrificed on a pyre;  I had to hide my make-up bag and was forced to keep my tampons under lock and key (real women don’t hide their blood away).  Became self-conscious because apparently I hadn’t communed with my vagina enough and preferred sex with (whisper it) men…

      

           7. The One Who Thought He Could Do Voodoo.  Boy, did I love that guy.  And went along with it all for a fair while – the not sleeping for three nights at a time malarkeys, the vampire hunts, the astral orienteering. But he got into the wrong sort of spirits and having someone screaming, ‘I’m cursing you! You’re so goddamn cursed for curse’s sake!’ at four in the morning gets…tiresome. 

      8. The One Who Was Too Political.  I mean, I was a good socialist back then.  I even canvassed in a half-hearted sort of way (though it was pretty boring preaching to the converted). But when you couldn’t even squeeze through the door of your own flat because of yet another meeting of the Bermondsey Liberation Front, it got too much.  I retaliated by hauling home bunches of random South Africans to sleep on the floor and it all got a bit…uncomfortable.

      9.  The One Who Hid.   On paper the ideal flat-mate – clean, silent,  inconspicuous, her portion of the rent and bills left on the table without fail each week.  But it started doing my head in.  Was she in or out?  How did she manage to get up the stairs without making one single step creak?  After a while I couldn’t even remember what she looked like.  I left her a note: ‘Is this working out?’ She left one back: ‘Probably not’.  And left.

      10. The One Who Was Boring.  Actually, come to think of it, he really was the very worst of all.  J

‘You know what?’ said Kelly on Twitter.  ‘You really ought to live alone.’ 

‘Couldn’t agree more, ‘ I said.    

Anyhow, over to you - worse flat/room/house shares ever?  

In which Rita, Jammy and I spend a day chatting about what I don't want.

‘Mum, you need a new phone.  It’s ridiculous.’  So said James and I couldn’t argue. I mean, who has a phone they can’t use?  I mean, one that can’t be used.  By dint of there being no O2 coverage on Exmoor.

‘But it worked fine in Morocco,’ I said. 

He rolled his eyes and frog-marched me into Carphone Warehouse. Of course, once inside, it transpired that this flurry of filial love wasn’t quite so altruistic – he really wanted a new phone of his own and, seriously, I just gave up the ghost and let him take over.  And it all seemed so easy, so painless, so simple.  This time, I thought, it will all be fine.

I am so stupid.

‘If you want to keep your number you will have to get a PAC code,’ said nice CPW guy. I started, like a gazelle getting a strong whiff of lion across the savannah. ‘No, it’s really easy,’ he said.   ‘You just phone this number and say you want to cancel your contract and ask for a PAC code.’

‘What? Don’t you do that?’

He shook his head smiling.  No doubt thinking:  Oh you stupid, stupid woman. Do we look like total numpties.

And, as always, I was in a hurry and so I just nodded and crammed all the stuff in my bag and took off.

Back home, of course, I realised that this was like one of those fairy-tale tasks, like herding ants or counting grains of rice.  To whit, hopeless.  I couldn’t ring the number on my mobile because (doh!) I don’t get network coverage.  So I figured I’d try online – except that O2 don’t recognise my email (despite managing to inform me how much they’re taking from me each month).  Twitter O2 was on a collective tea break.  So, an hour later I finally managed to find someone to ‘chat’ to.   

Welcome to O2. Someone will be with you soon.

Thank God for that.  So I started typing like a Fury. 

Hold that thought. You're not connected yet.

Oh. *blush* Yes, I blush when not talking to unknown people on the Internet.  

Rita: Hi I'm Rita. How can I help?

Rita? ‘Rita’?  Yeah, that figures.  Like these people use their real names. 

Jane Alexander: Hi Rita, trying to cancel my contract with O2 but can't get through on number given by Carphone Warehouse.  My phone number is blah… Can't do this online as O2 not recognising my username.  Can't do from phone as no signal in this area. So what do you suggest?

Also I'd like to keep this number for my new phone and need a PAC code - is that something you can help with as well?

Rita: Yes.

Jane Alexander: Great. Now what?

Rita: Please stay online while I transfer your chat.

We’re putting you through to the right person, won’t be long.

You're through to 'Jammy'

Jammy? ‘Jammy’? Really? These people have to be bots, don't they? *do quick search and nobody seems quite sure* 

Jammy: Hi, I'm Jammy from Re-contract team. I'll quickly go through your previous discussion and will help you further.

Re-contract??? Eyes narrow.  

Jammy: Hi Jane, thanks for the time. Can I know the deal you are getting with Carphone Warehouse?

Jane Alexander:  Huh? I just want to cancel my contract and get a PAC code

Jammy: If you can help me with the deal you are getting with carephone warehouse. I'll do the price match for you. We do price match with carephone warehouse.

Jane Alexander: No point. No network coverage by O2 here.  Now can we cancel the contract please?

Jammy: Did you share the information with our customer service about the network problem in your area?

Jane Alexander: Jammy, please, you're stalling.  Let's just get on with the cancellation. :)

Jammy: Sure, I am just try to help you find a similar deal with us. Can you confirm me is the new contract use O2 network?

Jane Alexander: No, it does not use O2 network because O2 has no network coverage in my area.

Jammy: Great.

Jane Alexander: Er. Okay.

Jammy: Thanks. Jane, I just want to share one deal with you. Before I go ahead and arrange the PAC for you. I've checked your average usage for past few months and can see that you use 13 minutes, 35 texts and 26 MB of data every month.

Jane Alexander: Er, Jammy?

Jammy: You can go for 24 months £11 tariff with 50 UK minutes, unlimited texts with 100 MB data. I'll add £150 cash back on your account. This credit will cover the cost of your next 12 to 13 months bills approximately and you don't have to pay anything.

Jane Alexander: Jammy?

Jammy: So if you calculate this deal would cost you £4.75 per month. Along with this I'll also give you an option to select any two from Unlimited Land line Calls, Unlimited Weekend Calls, Unlimited O2 to O2 Calls and 200 extra minutes. 

Jane Alexander: JAMMY! 

Jammy: In total you'll get 250 minute along with this you get an option to choice unlimited minutes plus you don't have to pay any bill for the next 12 to 13 months.

Jane Alexander: Jammy. It's too late. I've signed the deal. But I admire your tenacity. :) Also, what's the point 

of having a network I can't use? :)

Jammy: Okay, I help you with the PAC now.

So by now I’m actually weeping with laughter.  Or it might just be weeping.  And he goes through this stuff and finally I say…

Jane Alexander: Okay. So how do I activate the PAC code?

Jammy: You need to call the T-Mobile/Orange service team. They will help you how to activate the code on their network.

At which point I think I’ll cry. For real.   

Back to school...for all of us.

autumncozy.tumblr.com

And suddenly, that’s it.  Summer has ended.  On Sunday  I was lying out in the garden, lolling on the lawn, dog at side, book in hand.  Today, abruptly, it’s autumn.  My fingers are feeling the chill as I type.  Yes, already.   And it’s back to school.   For all of us. 

Autumn used to be my favourite season when I was young.  I loved the fresh sparky energy of September; it was inexorably linked with new starts.  Call me weird but I enjoyed the start of each school year – new books, new shoes, new pencil case. The feeling that you could wipe clean the slate and make things good.  Maybe.  Now?  Not so much.  I have shifted allegiance to spring.  If you’re interested in seasonal living, check out The Natural Year.  J

Meanwhile James is heading back to school.  I think, to be honest, he’s relieved.  And, once again, I have to extend some grateful thanks to Tesco Clothing for getting him kitted out.  Actually, the whole clothing thing is a bit of a headache right now.  Last Christmas he was shorter than I.  Somewhere around March I suddenly realised I was eyeballing him and now he’s overtaken not just me but Adrian and is lurking somewhere over the six foot mark.  Nothing fits.  NOTHING. 

‘It’s okay, Mum,’ he said stoically, trousers flapping around his calves, straining to do up the buttons on his shirt.   I got him a gym membership over the summer and he now has more muscles than is right and holy for a nearly 15 year old.  Plus he beats me hands (and legs)-down on the cross-trainer.

‘No,’ I said.  ‘Just no.’ 

And, in the nick of time, the nice PR for Tesco sent us an online voucher and so we’re stocked with trousers and shirts.   They’ve upped their game too – the trousers have been a bit thin in the past but this time they are pretty solid. Impressive.   I hadn’t realised Tesco also do branded stuff online so we managed to nab him some Nike sports shorts and, what the hell, a pretty snazzy T-shirt too. 

I was reading something the other day about how one shouldn’t buy school clothes from supermarkets but, for the love of God, when your child is growing like a weed (and you’re not made of cash) who, honestly, has the choice?  This kit is fit for purpose – does what it says on the label, and it looks and wears just as well as other, more expensive, brands.   In fact, having bought kit from both Tesco and M&S in the past, truly I can’t tell the difference. 

Anyhow.  I’m grateful that he’s going back to school not looking like an out-take from Oliver.  Except…damnit!  Clean forgot to get his blazer cleaned and haven’t a clue where his shoes are and, and… 

 I too am making a bit of a fresh start.  Tomorrow, I’m heading off to Grayshott Spa for a week’s Health Regime.  Not pampering stuff this time (sadly it’s all abdominal massages and castor oil packs rather than sybaritic loveliness) but what the heck.   I’ve been sliding a bit lately – the odd bottle of wine here, the odd bottle of Kummel there.  Time to get a grip.  J 

The Number Seven Walking Book Club

Little things, local things, said my friend Sandie and I thought, she’s got a point.  I should make an effort.   We humans are surely not intended to be so solitary?  And then, serendipity, I saw a tweet from Davina who has a fabulous shop in town.  Number Seven.   And she hosts a Walking Book Club.  And I remembered how she’d told me about it when she was setting it up. We’d discussed a book we both loved – The Night Circus.  Would I come, she asked?  Of course, I said.  But somehow I never had.  But now?  Why not?  So I picked up a copy of the month’s choice – A Proper Education for Girls - read it that night and it was a fine old romp.

And I told Sandie and she raised an eyebrow.  ‘A walking book club?' she said.  'What a strange idea - how can folk properly discuss something in a group if they're all walking along?? Someone's going to end up at the back and be unable to hear a thing. You Exmoor folk are a tad strange at times, I think. Don't people like to sit down with a glass of vino in those parts? Are they all madly outdoorsy??’

Which made me smile because yes, on the whole, people here are all madly outdoorsy. And certainly a tad strange.  But hey, I like reading and I like walking so…  Dan and I pitched up at Number Seven and off we went. 

‘The first bit is pretty steep so we won’t talk about the book until we get to the top,’ said Davina.  Aha, so that answered Sandie’s question.  And we walked up through the allotments and up past the old school house and into the hollow way that leads up to Court Down.  And then we sat down in a field, amidst the tall grass, and just had a very civilised little chat about the book which then veered out into other good books, and excellent and not so excellent films and even took a little side plunge into the question of how society’s views towards women had changed and not changed since Victorian times.  And the three dogs barrelled around and it was…nice. 

And then, when we were done talking, we meandered off again and walked down to Marsh Bridge and along the Barle and then climbed up again at Burridge Woods to avoid the scree slope, and Davina and Marion talked about the hut up at the hill fort.  And how they’d found it festooned with bones when they’d been there last. 

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That would have been me.  Did you find the skull?’ 

‘There was a skull?’

‘Oh yes. But I put that in a nearby tree, to watch.’ 

We clambered back down into town and, on our return to the shop, Davina brought out a little table piled with proof copies of books and said we were welcome to borrow any.  So I nabbed a couple and have spent this morning sitting in the sun reading Goat Mountain by David Vann.  A dark, disturbing book about an eleven-year old boy and three men on a mountain for their annual deer hunt.  But the boy shoots a man, not a buck, and the quartet pull themselves apart over questions of morality and mores, the rules and beliefs by which we choose to live. Did I enjoy it?  No.  It's not a pleasurable read.  But it certainly gives food for thought.  

Anyhow.  Next month's book choice is Revenge by Yoko Ogawa - 'A slice of life that is resplendent in its chaos, enthralling in its passion and chilling in its cruelty'.  So that sounds pretty jolly.  But I'm not going to read that until nearer the date because the downside to reading extremely fast is that I can rarely remember a book for more than a day or so.  So now I'm back to the garden with the next book Davina lent me - Perfect by Rachel Joyce.  

If you live on or around Exmoor, why not join the Club?  Check out the website for book choices and dates. If you don't live on or around Exmoor, why not join and 'virtually' walk instead?  Buy the book (all book club choices cost £5 from Number Seven) and share your thoughts on the blog (while walking in spirit, of course).  

Please note that all pics are © Davina Jelley.  Please do not reproduce without her permission.

Why we don't buy glossy magazines

So people aren’t buying women’s magazines any more?  Or at least, not so much.  In the Telegraph, Jo Fairley called the latest circulation figures a ‘bloodbath’.   She reckons we aren’t buying the glossies because, basically, we can get it all for free on the Internet.  And she has a point.  But really, it’s not just that.

Firstly we’re not buying them because they are stupidly expensive.  £4? £4.20? Oh, get a grip!

But mainly we’re not buying them because they insult our intelligence.  I’ve got one here with Helen Mirren on the cover.  A little pink circle says: “Your special signed subscriber cover” and underneath that, ‘With love from Helen’ (Helen is in handwriting, Mirren’s presumably).  Er, hello.  This is supposed to make us feel warm and snugly?  Helen loves us?  Each and every one of us?  With her printed signature.  Per-lease.  As if that weren’t enough, the only strapline says this: ‘A fresh start.  How to get what you really want.  More money, a healthier body. An extra shot of happiness.’

Dear magazines – we’re not entirely thick.  We know you can’t deliver happiness on a plate.  We are sick of your platitudes, your dumbed down X steps to happiness/career satisfaction/inner peace/the perfect orgasm.  We don’t trust your ‘recommendations’ because we know that they tend to be predicated by who’s paying the advertising bill that month.  We don’t believe your gushing travel features because we know they’ve been written by the intern on a freebie.   Your features are anodyne, with every ounce of originality and interest sucked out.  And yes, we can find better fashion and cookery in the web.  Without paying through the nose.

Plus, in some cases, we’re appalled. Revolted.  I’m looking at another (£4.20), the September issue.  I flick through and reel at the ads.  Actually, there are 126 pages of them before you even get to the first page of editorial.  I mean…who buys this stuff?  Who out there actually buys all the Dolce & Gabbana, the Fendi, the Longines, the Gucci? 

And that first page?

The Object of Desire:  Louis Vuitton Collar.  £820. 

Would any of you snap it up?  Or (I’m flipping through the rest of the mag now) shell out £14K for a watch  or £4,500 for a bangle or ‘about’ £1,020 for a python-skin clutch or…oh, you get the idea. And yes, I know it's about selling us the image, the 'desire for lifestyle' so we hand over twenty quid for a lipstick or whatever but really... 

I kept flipping through that magazine, trying to find something to read, something of interest, something…anything…that might chime a chord.  Now, I know I’m not their target audience (not a shopper, y’know) but still…   It’s not just that it’s a paean to shopping porn, it’s vapid. There is no meat. Nothing of substance.  It’s not even well-designed. 

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I like flicking through the glossies. Or I did.  A good magazine should be a snapshot of the moment.  I don’t endlessly trawl the web. I don't have time to check out all the various specialist sites. Plus I’m not interested enough in fashion or beauty or anything really to linger longingly. But it's quite nice to know what's new.  Plus, I like the feel of paper.  

What I want from a mag is a smart, sassy, informed edit of the best.  I want to read and see the work of specialists with an eye on the ball, a finger on the pulse and…a gut feeling for what’s worth knowing about.  Is there a really good book I should be reading? A cracker of a movie that isn’t a Hollywood  blockbuster that I might miss? Some breakthrough technique that will really make me look ten years younger?  Analysis of some trend or phenomenon – a deeper investigation – (Marie Claire used to do that really well).  And yes, sure, beautiful pics of nice clothes and homes and beaches and food are fine – but they need to be ‘real’ as in vaguely obtainable.  A good magazine should end up filled with turned down corners, with websites and numbers and bits of info ringed round in felt pen. 

Do any of them still provide that?  Red comes the nearest, to my mind (except they ruin it by being disgustingly ageist - what IS it with you magazines that you think that, once we hit 40 all we want is Spanx and cookery tips? But that's another rant).  Anyhow, the rest are pretty much a waste of space. 

Am I being unfair?  

You have the right to remain silent...

You have the right to remain silent.  Ah, but we don’t, do we?  We are compelled to talk, to relate, to narrate, to dictate, to gossip, to speculate, to whisper and shout and share.  Even those of us who say we don’t, do.  How can we not?  Even if we don’t talk out loud, the words come out in other ways – we write, we ‘chat’, we tweet, we sing, we chunter, we rant and rage or whine and whimper.  We talk to ourselves. We talk in our sleep. 

And last night I read this passage (from Your Face Tomorrow by Javier Marias) and it made me smile.

‘If you stop each night to think about what has been told or recounted to you during the day by the many or few people with whom you have spoken…you will see how rare it is ever to hear anything of real value or interest or discernment… Almost everything that everyone says and communicates is humbug or padding superfluous, commonplace, dull, interchangeable and trite, however much we feel it to be ‘ours’ and however much people ‘feel the need to express themselves’…  Talking is probably the biggest waste of time amongst the population as a whole, regardless of age, sex, class, wealth or knowledge, it is a wastage par excellence. ‘  [Itals my own.]

Yet still it seems we need to talk.  And mainly we need to talk about ourselves.  Rare are the listeners; even rarer are the askers of questions.   I remember once, years back, talking to this guy, a friend’s boyfriend.  Or rather he talked, and talked and talked and talked.  And it became a game.  How long could we go on with him not asking me one single question.  Answer?  Four hours.  Yup, I gave him the occasional prompt and off he went.   I should have charged him – shrink's rates.  J

Is listening a skill?  It certainly helped me become a relatively successful journalist.  Some might say it makes me a good friend.  The key is really to listen – not just to pretend while waiting impatiently to add your own anecdote or feeling.  Most people play verbal ping pong.  But then again, listening can be a defence mechanism – being a good listener is a great way to avoid talking.  And I feel uncomfortable talking about myself.  Because, really, what is there to say?   Who cares about my opinions?  I don't even care about my opinions that  much.   What business is it of mine what other people do, say; how they behave?  If my words can help or soothe in any way, then they’re worth it.  But they’re just words.  What use are they, really?  If, instead of offering words, I could wipe away pain and sickness; if I could take away sadness and indifference; if I could write large cheques and bestow largesse, then that might be worthwhile, huh?  But I’m helpless – so I offer words.

Anyhow.  See…even I (who love silence) am not immune.  I spew out words on this blog.  It’s one way of talking without being interrupted (*smile*).  Of course you don’t have to listen; nobody does.  That is the really good thing about this kind of verbiage – it’s easily switched off.   J 

Why do we talk?  Obviously it is useful – on a practical and evolutionary level.  But why do we feel the need to express ourselves?  Why do we need to be heard, to be understood?  Is it ego?  Is it all just ego?  I did a cursory search online to find out ‘why people talk’ but drew a blank – or rather I drew an awful lot of people…talking and not listening.  J

What do I think?  What do I know?   Don’t you love the ambiguity of that phrase?  Let me italicise the I to add some emphasis, to make the nuance clear. What do I know?  I guess sometimes we talk purely for comfort – against the cold, against the sheer nothingless, against oblivion.  Chitchat, the murmuring of words, shared laughter, the everyday, the inanity even, soothes like a warm bath, like the burn of brandy down the throat.  We know that ultimately we’re all alone but talking, with the right people, those who we feel *get* us, dispels the cold - just for a little while.  It’s like an inferior form of holding. 

And not everything is dross or commonplace or trite.  Sometimes someone says something that stops you in your tracks.  That makes you go ‘Oh’ and then sometimes ‘yes’.  And not just because you have the urge to go ‘Oh yes, me too,’ and then launch into your own anecdote or diatribe, but because it makes you want to go away and ponder quietly.  And I guess that’s why I don’t vanish into silence entirely.  And I guess that’s why I continue chuntering into the void because, every so often, someone says something in response to my inanity that …chimes. 

Anyhow. How about you?  Talker? Listener?  Any idea why we, as a species, have the talk urge?  

Does it matter?

But seriously.  I’m sitting outside in the sun, hearing the church bells ring the hour.  Noon.  I’ve just had an early lunch (chick pea dahl) and have fed the dogs (not chick pea dahl).  And I’m sort of half thinking.  My thoughts are a mess these days, a total mess.  I keep retreating to meditation, to the place of no-thought, but then I wonder – should one always seek to escape?  To run away?  Isn’t it opting out?  Just another form of distraction, through no-distraction?

And meanwhile the world is so screwed up.  Or rather, we’ve screwed it up so badly.  Recently I have been re-reading books I read when I was young and, in particular, the ones that nudged my green sensibilities.  The ones that probably partly influenced my book Walker.  Shabono.  Ishmael.  Have you read Ishmael?  It doesn’t make for comfortable reading.   

And  then (this morning at the gym) I finished Liz Jensen’s The Uninvited.   It was a cheap Kindle download and I picked it up because I’d quite liked The Rapture and Louis Drax.  I’d wanted some mindless entertainment, some frivolous distraction but there again – those uncomfortable issues: our over-population, the non-sustainability of growth, our greed, our living so out of kilter with the rest of the planet… and despair washes over me.

And then I ponder – does it matter?  We are born. We live.  We die.  Like all animals.  Yet, unlike (as far as we know) other animals, we make up stories.  We call these stories things like ‘True Love’ and ‘Challenge’ and ‘Work ethic’ and 'Happy Families' and ‘A Good Life’ and ‘Personal Growth’.  Or maybe for some of us the only story is ‘Survival’.  It just depends on our circumstances and our personal bent.

‘You’d be happier in an ashram,’ Adrian often says to me.  Maybe he’s right.  But I’m not sure that an answer either – it’s just another story.  Probably there is no answer.  The thing is, nobody knows. 

I let my mind wander over the D.H. Lawrence story, The Man Who Loved Islands (my second favourite DHL story, after The Man Who Died).  Have you read it?  I haven’t revisited it for years.  But, as I remember, it reinforces the idea - you can’t run away.  No matter how I may fantasise about a simple life…a little hut…in the deep woods… on a shoreside…on an island even…I know it won’t solve anything. 

Should we be trying to save the world?  It’s tempting to say so but nothing is changed for sheer force of will, is it? You can't change people.  You can only change yourself.  Big changes will probably only come by internal change.  One person at a time.  Can we change enough?  In time?  Should we?  Who knows?  

And, really, does it matter?  Yes, I’m repeating myself…I told you, my wondering whirs around, a cloud of unknowing.  Does it matter?  Probably not.  But it’s still sad.   And now the church bell rings again.  The half hour.  And I'm just wandering in my mind out loud.