I know, I know, it has been ages since I last blogged. A thousand apologies. Last weekend I had every intention of telling you all about the perfect girly weekend in London. On Friday I went to the Porchester Spa (the oldest spa in London, and a wonderful example of Art Deco architecture) with girlfriend number one. On Saturday I went to see the Photography Prize at the Photographers Gallery before hitting the shops to buy a dress for a 60’s themed Birthday Party with girlfriend number two. And, to round it off, on Sunday I was planning to hit Greenwich Market with girlfriend number three, followed with a bit of pot painting. Happy days.
Alas, I never got to Greenwich, because I got sick. In fact, I didn’t even get to wear my new dress last night at said party, as I got really sick. And ended up in the Whittington Hospital for five days.
I’m not telling you this to gain your sympathy (honest) but because my life has been nothing more than having my blood pressure checked, my stomach prodded (yes, it does hurt doctor!) and needles stuck in me for last week. So I have little else to write about. But rather than tell you the ins and outs of my mystery illness, I thought I’d share a few thoughts about that pillar of the Welfare State, the NHS.
The hospital that I have the pleasure of visiting is, if you don’t already know, under threat. The A&E is set to close and a lot of the other services are likely to merge with those of North London’s other main hospitals, the Royal Free and UCLH. This is something I am not particularly happy about. Okay, so geographically speaking, neither hospital is that far away from me. But the Whittington is a lot closer. Factor in London rush-hour traffic, and I pity anyone who has a heart attack and needs to get to a hospital pronto.
Having said that, I have to say the Whittington is probably a little past its sell by date. When I first arrived in Casualty I could swear the room I was put in was once a cupboard. My bed faced a frosted window, and through it I could see cobwebs, grime and the odd pigeon flying up to its nest in the guttering. Okay, so that was on the outside, but I can’t say it filled me with confidence. Maybe it’s just me, but I expect hospitals to be maintained well on the inside and the outside. I’d rather the windows were clean than see fancy pictures on the corridor walls anyway.
The thing I think the NHS forgets is that the people who visit their hospitals are sick. And therefore surely a little bit of effort should be paid towards offering them reassurance and making them feel comfortable. As an outpatient I hate attending my appointments, not just because you never know what they are going to tell you next, but because the waiting room is so dingy, with poor lighting and grim mustard yellow walls that it makes me want to head straight over to psychiatry for a dose of Prozac.
Okay, so giving the place a fresh lick of paint would cost money and there isn’t a lot of that to go round at the moment. But there are some things that can be done to make poorly, lonely and often scared patients feel a little less anxious about their stay in hospital that cost absolutely nothing at all.
Firstly, smile. Say hello. Tell the patient what your name is. Ask them what their name is. Tell them how things work on the ward; where the loo is, when mealtimes are, when visitors are allowed. Explain what you are doing. Tell them what you think might be wrong with them and how it could be treated. LISTEN TO THEM. Hand over to your colleagues what you have learnt about the patient accurately so that they don’t have to explain their symptoms again. Talk to them with a bit of respect – okay, so they might not grasp all the medical jargon straight away but that doesn’t make them stupid. And if they ask a question or for help, don’t fob them off. Tell them you don’t know or you can’t help, and only tell a patient someone will be with them in a minute if that is really the case. That way, your average patient will at least have their mind partly at rest. And, as we all know, a healthy and happy mind will help a body become healthy and happy too.
In my mind, in an ideal world the NHS and all public services would be built from the bottom upwards again, getting rid of the needless deadwood that floats around services and going back to basics. Sure, learn from what we have done before and recycle the bits that work, just get rid of the bits that don’t. And whist you’re at it, why not stick in a bit of training for medical professionals to develop their bedside manner. Don’t get me wrong, there are doctors and nurses who do a fantastic job and treat their patients with the upmost care and attention. But sadly there are also those who are too busy to bother with the anxieties of the people under their care. I know they are often overworked and underpaid, but how hard is it to smile and explain why you are taking a blood sample from someone yet again? I’d argue, not very.
NHS, I salute you. But I’m afraid you don’t get any medals from me yet.
Sunday, 2 May 2010
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Face-to-Facebook
Him Indoors often accuses me of being “bouncy”. Not because I resemble a space hopper (other than on a particularly bad day) but because I am not very good at doing nothing. Sitting on my arse all day is something I find very difficult, unless I am doing something I consider productive, as I am now. But even then I get cabin fever if I don’t venture out to the great outdoors on at least one occasion over the space of 24 hours.
This is why London and I have got on for so many years. There is always something to see, somewhere to go, like-minded people to meet. And because London is so densely populated, no matter what it is that you are into, there are bound to be other people who are into it too, whether its kick boxing, knitting or kinky underwear.
I have found myself joining a few “groups” over the years, and have to say I find them not just enjoyable but also invaluable. Meeting new people not only inspires but opens up countless new opportunities. Take my book club for example. It was fellow bookworm Claire that inspired me to start my own blog and advised me how to go about setting it up. She also told me about the Grumpy Young Women Blog which I have started contributing to and www.chocolatereviews.co.uk who were looking for bloggers to mention their website in exchange for some free chocolate (job done). So last week I indulged in some rather smooth dark choc from Prestat gratis. What more could a girl ask for?
Some of the books I’ve been introduced to have come in handy too. Sheconomics helped me finally get a grip of my own finances, and although I still don’t quite understand mortgages I have a plan which has helped me save a deposit for a house AND ensured that my student loan will be paid off within the year. About time too.
Then there’s More to Life Than Shoes, where women get together to help each other achieve their goals through offering support and exchanging ideas and tips. Not only has it given me the kick up the bum that I needed to focus on what I really want, but given me a lot of help along the way too. Last week I received an email from one of the girls about a site that were looking for festival goers to blog for them and I put a young graduate in touch with a photographer friend for a few pointers on breaking into the industry. I’ve got ideas coming out of my ears about how to achieve my own goals, from using networking websites to promote my work to tips on improving my running. All good stuff.
Then there’s my writing group which stemmed from a course that I completed last year. Not only does it keep me writing but I get constructive feedback on my work too. My fellow writers have also given me ideas, from watching Julie and Julia to websites that give tips on writing and links to competitions all over the world. Nice one.
Even without my monthly get-togethers, there are opportunities all over the place to meet new people and pick their brains. Last week I went to an event at a clothes shop and got talking to an American journalist who was promoting her book. She gave me even more ideas about how to get into writing which I have yet to utilise.
So, my little black book brimming with new contacts and lists of things to do, I don’t really have the time to sit on my arse all day. In fact, the thought of having nothing to do is practically inconceivable. It’s a good job I’m bouncy after all otherwise I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting even half of it done.
This is why London and I have got on for so many years. There is always something to see, somewhere to go, like-minded people to meet. And because London is so densely populated, no matter what it is that you are into, there are bound to be other people who are into it too, whether its kick boxing, knitting or kinky underwear.
I have found myself joining a few “groups” over the years, and have to say I find them not just enjoyable but also invaluable. Meeting new people not only inspires but opens up countless new opportunities. Take my book club for example. It was fellow bookworm Claire that inspired me to start my own blog and advised me how to go about setting it up. She also told me about the Grumpy Young Women Blog which I have started contributing to and www.chocolatereviews.co.uk who were looking for bloggers to mention their website in exchange for some free chocolate (job done). So last week I indulged in some rather smooth dark choc from Prestat gratis. What more could a girl ask for?
Some of the books I’ve been introduced to have come in handy too. Sheconomics helped me finally get a grip of my own finances, and although I still don’t quite understand mortgages I have a plan which has helped me save a deposit for a house AND ensured that my student loan will be paid off within the year. About time too.
Then there’s More to Life Than Shoes, where women get together to help each other achieve their goals through offering support and exchanging ideas and tips. Not only has it given me the kick up the bum that I needed to focus on what I really want, but given me a lot of help along the way too. Last week I received an email from one of the girls about a site that were looking for festival goers to blog for them and I put a young graduate in touch with a photographer friend for a few pointers on breaking into the industry. I’ve got ideas coming out of my ears about how to achieve my own goals, from using networking websites to promote my work to tips on improving my running. All good stuff.
Then there’s my writing group which stemmed from a course that I completed last year. Not only does it keep me writing but I get constructive feedback on my work too. My fellow writers have also given me ideas, from watching Julie and Julia to websites that give tips on writing and links to competitions all over the world. Nice one.
Even without my monthly get-togethers, there are opportunities all over the place to meet new people and pick their brains. Last week I went to an event at a clothes shop and got talking to an American journalist who was promoting her book. She gave me even more ideas about how to get into writing which I have yet to utilise.
So, my little black book brimming with new contacts and lists of things to do, I don’t really have the time to sit on my arse all day. In fact, the thought of having nothing to do is practically inconceivable. It’s a good job I’m bouncy after all otherwise I wouldn’t stand a chance of getting even half of it done.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Credit Crunch Culture
For those of you who do not live in or have never really been to London, I am not going to lie to you: It aint cheap. Without the secret weapon of an Oyster Card, a tube journey into central London costs about four pounds. You do well to buy a pint for three pounds. It even costs you 20p to have a wee at the train station, and even more if you happen to end up in a pretentious bar where you are expected to tip someone for handing you a paper towel. As for house prices... don’t get me started.
Having said that, you don’t have to spend a fortune to have a good time. Even as a tourist sightseeing, you can experience the best of London without hemorrhaging money. And, to be quite honest, I often find the cheap and cheerful options much more enjoyable than the cash crunching must-sees.
Take last week for example. I decided to take the week off and spent four days in London without anything terribly pressing to do. So I decided to catch up on some culture. After enjoying a facial and a hair cut on Tuesday morning (special offer through work – massage, facial, hair cut and colour for £40! Told you bargains are to be had) I headed over to the Women’s Library to see an exhibition on the Women’s Movement in the 1970’s. Not everyone’s cup of tea, I am sure, but I found it really interesting and informative. And... it was free. Admittedly I paid £1 for a newspaper which accompanied the exhibition, but it turned out to be a good buy, ram-packed with art work and information which I will no doubt refer back to and share with others. Happy days!
On Wednesday I ventured out with Him Indoors. We decided to do what we have been meaning to do for years and go to the London Dungeon. Mainly because we had a 2 for 1 voucher, courtesy of Tesco’s, which made it a slightly more affordable £11 each. After queuing for a good half an hour we finally got into the attraction. And... quite enjoyed it. I say quite, because, in my humble opinion, it could have been a hell of a lot better, especially considering they charge most unsuspecting tourists £22.50 to get in. But why invest money in an attraction that people are going to visit once and probably not bother going back to anyway? Why pay a few more actors when you can show a crappy video and play a recorded voice in a darkened room? Don’t you know there’s a recession on? Let’s put it this way, I would have been rather disgruntled if we had parted with nearly fifty notes for the experience.
After a cuppa and a pretzel we decided to try out another much loved London attraction we had yet to tackle, Monument. I say tackle as to get to the top you have to climb 311 steps. But it was worth it. For the very reasonable price of £3 each the views rivalled St Paul’s and the London Eye, which are decidedly more expensive, and you get a certificate to show you have been to the top with a brief history of the Monument thrown in for good measure. And the exercise made me feel a hell of a lot less guilty about the burger, chilli cheese chips and peanut butter malt I enjoyed in Ed’s Diner afterwards (not as cheap as Burger King, but a decidedly superior experience!).
So, bargains are to be had in London Town. Get onto a few email lists and special offers abound. But, to be quite honest, it is the cheap and cheerful side of London’s museums and attractions which give it its edge. Take the Tate Modern, the National Gallery, the British Museum. All free. Not to mention all the tiny but wonderfully charming museums hidden away behind the flashing lights of Madame Tussaud’s and Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. I recommend the Old Operating Theatre to anyone with an interest in a slightly macabre history. And there are plenty of others that I have not yet discovered.
Can’t wait until I do though.
Having said that, you don’t have to spend a fortune to have a good time. Even as a tourist sightseeing, you can experience the best of London without hemorrhaging money. And, to be quite honest, I often find the cheap and cheerful options much more enjoyable than the cash crunching must-sees.
Take last week for example. I decided to take the week off and spent four days in London without anything terribly pressing to do. So I decided to catch up on some culture. After enjoying a facial and a hair cut on Tuesday morning (special offer through work – massage, facial, hair cut and colour for £40! Told you bargains are to be had) I headed over to the Women’s Library to see an exhibition on the Women’s Movement in the 1970’s. Not everyone’s cup of tea, I am sure, but I found it really interesting and informative. And... it was free. Admittedly I paid £1 for a newspaper which accompanied the exhibition, but it turned out to be a good buy, ram-packed with art work and information which I will no doubt refer back to and share with others. Happy days!
On Wednesday I ventured out with Him Indoors. We decided to do what we have been meaning to do for years and go to the London Dungeon. Mainly because we had a 2 for 1 voucher, courtesy of Tesco’s, which made it a slightly more affordable £11 each. After queuing for a good half an hour we finally got into the attraction. And... quite enjoyed it. I say quite, because, in my humble opinion, it could have been a hell of a lot better, especially considering they charge most unsuspecting tourists £22.50 to get in. But why invest money in an attraction that people are going to visit once and probably not bother going back to anyway? Why pay a few more actors when you can show a crappy video and play a recorded voice in a darkened room? Don’t you know there’s a recession on? Let’s put it this way, I would have been rather disgruntled if we had parted with nearly fifty notes for the experience.
After a cuppa and a pretzel we decided to try out another much loved London attraction we had yet to tackle, Monument. I say tackle as to get to the top you have to climb 311 steps. But it was worth it. For the very reasonable price of £3 each the views rivalled St Paul’s and the London Eye, which are decidedly more expensive, and you get a certificate to show you have been to the top with a brief history of the Monument thrown in for good measure. And the exercise made me feel a hell of a lot less guilty about the burger, chilli cheese chips and peanut butter malt I enjoyed in Ed’s Diner afterwards (not as cheap as Burger King, but a decidedly superior experience!).
So, bargains are to be had in London Town. Get onto a few email lists and special offers abound. But, to be quite honest, it is the cheap and cheerful side of London’s museums and attractions which give it its edge. Take the Tate Modern, the National Gallery, the British Museum. All free. Not to mention all the tiny but wonderfully charming museums hidden away behind the flashing lights of Madame Tussaud’s and Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. I recommend the Old Operating Theatre to anyone with an interest in a slightly macabre history. And there are plenty of others that I have not yet discovered.
Can’t wait until I do though.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Pointing the Finger
Let’s face it, in this life, lots of things go wrong. Every day. You ladder your tights. You get to work to find out you’ve ran out of coffee. You get to the gym to learn that your yoga class has been cancelled. When these little incidents happen, quite often all you can do is shrug your shoulders and say, “shit happens”.
Even when it’s the small stuff, some people find it easier to point the finger of blame than admit that it just isn’t their day. This is particularly true of Londoners. How dare their yoga teacher get ill? Which bloody idiot put that hedge there? Why didn’t the supermarket wave the coffee in front of my eyes when I walked in? What, am I supposed to be psychic and remember what I need?
The blamers bitch and moan under their breath about the said offender. Okay, so no-one’s likely to lose their job or doubt their own worthiness on this planet over it. But what really bugs me is when people are blamed for the big things, the things that could end their careers . Even when there was nothing (or certainly very little) that they could have done about it.
I know this is a controversial subject, but bear with me. Since living in London I have worked in the social care sector and like to think I have an insiders’ view about the job that social workers and probation officers do. And I happen to think it is a bloody hard one. When I was younger and pondering what career path to take, both these professions attracted me. Then I found out more about them. Most social workers and probation officers I know have got caseloads so big they struggle to see the individuals under their care for more than about 15 minutes a week. Then there’s the paperwork. And meetings. A majority of social workers and probation officers would welcome an admin amnesty. It might actually give them the opportunity to do some real work with people rather than just write action plans, risk assessments and talking to other professionals about what should be done. Only problem is, no one has the time to do what should be done. They are too busy chasing their tails trying to reach stupid meaningless deadlines which might tick a few boxes but don’t actually do anything to help the individual, or the community, that is at risk.
Take Jon Venables for example. He has been recalled to prison. All of a sudden there is a public outcry. He should never have been let out. Okay, he was originally sent to prison for a horrific crime. He was found guilty. He was sentenced. He was granted parole with certain conditions. He broke those conditions and has been recalled to prison. Surely the media attention this case attracted should not stop him being treated the same as other criminals being managed by the criminal justice system for similar offences? If you don’t like it, I suggest you join a like-minded organisation and campaign to have the system overhauled.
What really gets my goat is the suggestion that the probation officer hasn’t been doing their job properly and should be fired. Why? Because they recalled someone to prison who breached their parole conditions? Because they weren’t able to brainwash someone and completely change their psyche? Because at some point in their career they decided to work with a particularly difficult client group? Jon Venables would have done the things he did no matter who his probation officer was. If you want to point the finger of blame, point it at him. Just leave the harassed professional alone. If they haven’t done their job properly, I’m sure it will be picked up on by their boss, not some journalist from a dodgy tabloid.
Of course this kind of finger pointing happens to those working in children’s services too. I saw a recent case on the news where a whole heap of professionals ranging from the police to social workers covering half the Midlands stood up to publicly apologise for a case of child abuse that was not dealt with as it should have been. Maybe harassed social workers missed the signs, people slipped through the net. I don’t know. But what the news programme I watched this story on failed to comment on was that these people, who no doubt went into their respective professions thinking they could change the world for the better before being hit by a wall of red tape and bureaucracy, did not commit any crime. They didn’t harm anyone. They certainly didn’t abuse anyone. Their crime is that they failed to read between the lines and put two and two together.
The same can be said about Baby Peter. What happened to that little boy was... well, words can’t describe what it was. Haringey Council were scrutinised mercilessly for years after for their failures in this case. Heads rolled. People were blamed for his death. Not because they had any intention for a child to die. But because they missed the signs. I have no doubt that any person who might have clicked that something so terrible was happening to that little boy would have taken action. But they didn’t see it. Any they will live with that for the rest of their lives.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s important that professionals learn from these cases, and the many others that go unreported by the media where maybe a situation could have been prevented. But please remember, before you point the finger of blame, that these people are not criminals. They are not abusers and murderers. They are people who wanted to help others, to make our society a better place. Their big mistake is to believe that they will be free to do their jobs properly without the scrutiny of government figures and the glaring light of the media, hungry and ready to pounce at their first stumble.
I’m just glad I didn’t make the same career choice that they did.
Even when it’s the small stuff, some people find it easier to point the finger of blame than admit that it just isn’t their day. This is particularly true of Londoners. How dare their yoga teacher get ill? Which bloody idiot put that hedge there? Why didn’t the supermarket wave the coffee in front of my eyes when I walked in? What, am I supposed to be psychic and remember what I need?
The blamers bitch and moan under their breath about the said offender. Okay, so no-one’s likely to lose their job or doubt their own worthiness on this planet over it. But what really bugs me is when people are blamed for the big things, the things that could end their careers . Even when there was nothing (or certainly very little) that they could have done about it.
I know this is a controversial subject, but bear with me. Since living in London I have worked in the social care sector and like to think I have an insiders’ view about the job that social workers and probation officers do. And I happen to think it is a bloody hard one. When I was younger and pondering what career path to take, both these professions attracted me. Then I found out more about them. Most social workers and probation officers I know have got caseloads so big they struggle to see the individuals under their care for more than about 15 minutes a week. Then there’s the paperwork. And meetings. A majority of social workers and probation officers would welcome an admin amnesty. It might actually give them the opportunity to do some real work with people rather than just write action plans, risk assessments and talking to other professionals about what should be done. Only problem is, no one has the time to do what should be done. They are too busy chasing their tails trying to reach stupid meaningless deadlines which might tick a few boxes but don’t actually do anything to help the individual, or the community, that is at risk.
Take Jon Venables for example. He has been recalled to prison. All of a sudden there is a public outcry. He should never have been let out. Okay, he was originally sent to prison for a horrific crime. He was found guilty. He was sentenced. He was granted parole with certain conditions. He broke those conditions and has been recalled to prison. Surely the media attention this case attracted should not stop him being treated the same as other criminals being managed by the criminal justice system for similar offences? If you don’t like it, I suggest you join a like-minded organisation and campaign to have the system overhauled.
What really gets my goat is the suggestion that the probation officer hasn’t been doing their job properly and should be fired. Why? Because they recalled someone to prison who breached their parole conditions? Because they weren’t able to brainwash someone and completely change their psyche? Because at some point in their career they decided to work with a particularly difficult client group? Jon Venables would have done the things he did no matter who his probation officer was. If you want to point the finger of blame, point it at him. Just leave the harassed professional alone. If they haven’t done their job properly, I’m sure it will be picked up on by their boss, not some journalist from a dodgy tabloid.
Of course this kind of finger pointing happens to those working in children’s services too. I saw a recent case on the news where a whole heap of professionals ranging from the police to social workers covering half the Midlands stood up to publicly apologise for a case of child abuse that was not dealt with as it should have been. Maybe harassed social workers missed the signs, people slipped through the net. I don’t know. But what the news programme I watched this story on failed to comment on was that these people, who no doubt went into their respective professions thinking they could change the world for the better before being hit by a wall of red tape and bureaucracy, did not commit any crime. They didn’t harm anyone. They certainly didn’t abuse anyone. Their crime is that they failed to read between the lines and put two and two together.
The same can be said about Baby Peter. What happened to that little boy was... well, words can’t describe what it was. Haringey Council were scrutinised mercilessly for years after for their failures in this case. Heads rolled. People were blamed for his death. Not because they had any intention for a child to die. But because they missed the signs. I have no doubt that any person who might have clicked that something so terrible was happening to that little boy would have taken action. But they didn’t see it. Any they will live with that for the rest of their lives.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s important that professionals learn from these cases, and the many others that go unreported by the media where maybe a situation could have been prevented. But please remember, before you point the finger of blame, that these people are not criminals. They are not abusers and murderers. They are people who wanted to help others, to make our society a better place. Their big mistake is to believe that they will be free to do their jobs properly without the scrutiny of government figures and the glaring light of the media, hungry and ready to pounce at their first stumble.
I’m just glad I didn’t make the same career choice that they did.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
As Time Goes By...
I admit that I am one of those annoying people who often uses that irritating phrase, “patience is a virtue.” Not that I proclaim to be particularly virtuous, but being patient is a useful quality, especially as it can reduce stress levels if you happen to find yourself in particularly frustrating situations.
Which, funnily enough, you often do when you live in London. Even though the city and everyone in it seems to move at a million miles a second most of the time, quite often you find you have to quickly apply the breaks…and wait. For. A. Long. Time.
I have examples.
A couple of weeks ago I called my GP surgery. I made what I thought was a simple, reasonable request: to see my usual GP before or after the hours of 9 and 4. I heard the secretary clicking away on her keyboard on the other end of the phone. There was a pause.
“I can fit you in on Monday at 5.30. As in Monday 23rd March.”
As in, I haven’t seen my GP yet. Two weeks later. Okay, so if it was an emergency I’m sure I could have seen someone sooner, but still…two weeks? I might have forgotten what it was I needed to see her about by then!
Another example.
About a week and a half ago I went out to dinner with some of the girls. One of them had chosen a lovely venue (The Cork and Bottle just off Leicester Square if you are interested – lovely food and wine) and booked us a table in a little alcove at the back of the bar. Hungry and thirsty, we all went up to the bar to order our food. One friend went for a simple salad. The other went for veggie Shepherds’ Pie with French bread on the side. I chose the posh sausage and chips with salsa. We settled at our table and sipped our Beaujolais. My food arrived first. The girls encouraged me to tuck in. So I did. And a good job too, as the next plate emerged over five minutes later. My sausage and chips had all but disappeared by the time the third meal showed up. When we had all finished our meal the waitress appeared to inform us that the bread was on the way. We asked if it was on the Eurostar yet or if it had only just left the oven in the boulangerie. Actually we didn’t, but my friend asked for her money back. We were kind of over the need for bread by then.
A couple of days later my mum came down to London for the day. Two hours before she was due to arrive I had a hospital appointment. I suggested to Him Indoors we go to the hospital first and then have a spot of brekkie at his favourite caff before heading to Kings Cross to meet mum. He agreed.
The hospital had other ideas, though.
Half an hour after my appointment time the receptionist announced the doctor was not even in the building yet, so all appointments were at least half an hour delayed. Funnily we had already picked up on that one. Fifteen minutes later I was summoned by one of his “team” for an assessment. More like to make it look like he wasn’t that late after all, no doubt, but I complied and managed to see the doctor an hour after he was due to see me. By the time I had been seen, breakfast wasn’t on the menu anymore. But at least I was better off than the poor folk who were still waiting – the waiting time was up to two hours when I left.
Tummies rumbling, we headed to the tube station. Only five stops to Kings Cross. Shouldn’t have taken more than, say, 15 minutes, absolute tops? Unless, of course, there are signalling problems. By the time we arrived at the train station we could both quote the adverts plastered inside our carriage by heart.
Just on time, we met my mum and headed over to Piccadilly for a spot of lunch before mooching around the Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy. Amazingly, lunch went without a hitch. Less surprisingly, there was a bit queue to get into the exhibition. We hadn’t been able to get pre-booked tickets, so we joined the end of the snaking line.
And waited.
Mum went to sit down whilst us young spring chickens held the fort.
We waited.
It started to rain.
We waited a bit more.
Eventually we got to the front of the outside queue, and were permitted to enter the next stage of the queue under a marquee.
We waited a bit more. Him Indoors went to the loo. The queue shuffled forward a bit – but not so much that he couldn’t find me when he returned.
And… we waited.
Finally, the end was in sight. “I can see the admissions office!” I cried, overjoyed.
The woman in front turned to me. “That’s not really the admissions office. It’s a mirage.”
But it wasn’t. Sure enough, we were soon within the four walls of the building. There were a mere handful of people in front of us. I started to get excited.
Then one of the gallery attendants approached us.
“No more ticket sales for ten to fifteen minutes.”
I decided to go to the loo. Guess what? There was a queue. But when I got back to the other queue…the ticket office was open again. And we were next in line.
Was it a good exhibition? It was excellent. Was it worth queuing for one and a half hours? Losing ninety minutes of my life just standing there, occasionally shuffling forwards? Mmm. You’ll have to get back to me about that one.
The good news is that I had a lovely day out with my mum. After a spot of shopping in Covent Garden and dinner in St Pancras Station (they have a Carluccio's, don’t you know?) we waved her off on her way back up north. I told her to give me a call when she got in. Sure enough, when she got home about an hour and a half later, she sent me a text to tell me she has home safe and had had a lovely day.
I was pleased – not just because she was home safe and happy, but because it only took her an hour and a half to get home. Of course that is the amount of time it should have taken her, but two weeks previously I had been travelling back to London from my parents’ and it took me nearly six hours. Yes, six hours for a journey that should have taken a quarter of that time. Why? Because of a power failure in the Hitchin area. We had been stuck on the train for four hours without power or air conditioning. Or water.
I just hope to God I don’t have to wait that long for anything again in the near future. Or ever would be nice. Somehow, though, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be drumming my fingers on the nearest hard surface and sighing loudly again soon.
Which, funnily enough, you often do when you live in London. Even though the city and everyone in it seems to move at a million miles a second most of the time, quite often you find you have to quickly apply the breaks…and wait. For. A. Long. Time.
I have examples.
A couple of weeks ago I called my GP surgery. I made what I thought was a simple, reasonable request: to see my usual GP before or after the hours of 9 and 4. I heard the secretary clicking away on her keyboard on the other end of the phone. There was a pause.
“I can fit you in on Monday at 5.30. As in Monday 23rd March.”
As in, I haven’t seen my GP yet. Two weeks later. Okay, so if it was an emergency I’m sure I could have seen someone sooner, but still…two weeks? I might have forgotten what it was I needed to see her about by then!
Another example.
About a week and a half ago I went out to dinner with some of the girls. One of them had chosen a lovely venue (The Cork and Bottle just off Leicester Square if you are interested – lovely food and wine) and booked us a table in a little alcove at the back of the bar. Hungry and thirsty, we all went up to the bar to order our food. One friend went for a simple salad. The other went for veggie Shepherds’ Pie with French bread on the side. I chose the posh sausage and chips with salsa. We settled at our table and sipped our Beaujolais. My food arrived first. The girls encouraged me to tuck in. So I did. And a good job too, as the next plate emerged over five minutes later. My sausage and chips had all but disappeared by the time the third meal showed up. When we had all finished our meal the waitress appeared to inform us that the bread was on the way. We asked if it was on the Eurostar yet or if it had only just left the oven in the boulangerie. Actually we didn’t, but my friend asked for her money back. We were kind of over the need for bread by then.
A couple of days later my mum came down to London for the day. Two hours before she was due to arrive I had a hospital appointment. I suggested to Him Indoors we go to the hospital first and then have a spot of brekkie at his favourite caff before heading to Kings Cross to meet mum. He agreed.
The hospital had other ideas, though.
Half an hour after my appointment time the receptionist announced the doctor was not even in the building yet, so all appointments were at least half an hour delayed. Funnily we had already picked up on that one. Fifteen minutes later I was summoned by one of his “team” for an assessment. More like to make it look like he wasn’t that late after all, no doubt, but I complied and managed to see the doctor an hour after he was due to see me. By the time I had been seen, breakfast wasn’t on the menu anymore. But at least I was better off than the poor folk who were still waiting – the waiting time was up to two hours when I left.
Tummies rumbling, we headed to the tube station. Only five stops to Kings Cross. Shouldn’t have taken more than, say, 15 minutes, absolute tops? Unless, of course, there are signalling problems. By the time we arrived at the train station we could both quote the adverts plastered inside our carriage by heart.
Just on time, we met my mum and headed over to Piccadilly for a spot of lunch before mooching around the Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy. Amazingly, lunch went without a hitch. Less surprisingly, there was a bit queue to get into the exhibition. We hadn’t been able to get pre-booked tickets, so we joined the end of the snaking line.
And waited.
Mum went to sit down whilst us young spring chickens held the fort.
We waited.
It started to rain.
We waited a bit more.
Eventually we got to the front of the outside queue, and were permitted to enter the next stage of the queue under a marquee.
We waited a bit more. Him Indoors went to the loo. The queue shuffled forward a bit – but not so much that he couldn’t find me when he returned.
And… we waited.
Finally, the end was in sight. “I can see the admissions office!” I cried, overjoyed.
The woman in front turned to me. “That’s not really the admissions office. It’s a mirage.”
But it wasn’t. Sure enough, we were soon within the four walls of the building. There were a mere handful of people in front of us. I started to get excited.
Then one of the gallery attendants approached us.
“No more ticket sales for ten to fifteen minutes.”
I decided to go to the loo. Guess what? There was a queue. But when I got back to the other queue…the ticket office was open again. And we were next in line.
Was it a good exhibition? It was excellent. Was it worth queuing for one and a half hours? Losing ninety minutes of my life just standing there, occasionally shuffling forwards? Mmm. You’ll have to get back to me about that one.
The good news is that I had a lovely day out with my mum. After a spot of shopping in Covent Garden and dinner in St Pancras Station (they have a Carluccio's, don’t you know?) we waved her off on her way back up north. I told her to give me a call when she got in. Sure enough, when she got home about an hour and a half later, she sent me a text to tell me she has home safe and had had a lovely day.
I was pleased – not just because she was home safe and happy, but because it only took her an hour and a half to get home. Of course that is the amount of time it should have taken her, but two weeks previously I had been travelling back to London from my parents’ and it took me nearly six hours. Yes, six hours for a journey that should have taken a quarter of that time. Why? Because of a power failure in the Hitchin area. We had been stuck on the train for four hours without power or air conditioning. Or water.
I just hope to God I don’t have to wait that long for anything again in the near future. Or ever would be nice. Somehow, though, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be drumming my fingers on the nearest hard surface and sighing loudly again soon.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Come Dancing
One thing I love about London is its nightlife. Not all your big fancy super-clubs like Ministry and Fabric, but all the little random nights in random places, full of random people.
Take my last two nights out for example (if only because they happened within a week of each other and make me sound like a social butterfly). Just over a week ago I went to a night called “How Does It Feel to Be Loved” in the function room of a pub in Brixton. Although the music was not quite to my taste (sorry Mr DJ but too much emphasis on obscure 60’s Soul and not enough of the Northern variety – please take note) it was a very pleasant night out. It did feel a bit like a student’s union, but that’s okay, because I used to like going to my student’s union and went to a couple of nights out in such bars when I moved to London. Cheap and cheerful, as was this night at the bargain price of £4 (for members, darling).
What really made it was the crowd. The atmosphere was relaxed. People were laughing and talking to strangers. Men and women danced together, not gyrating their hips together like some bad version of Dirty Dancing, but dancing how they wanted to dance. Okay so a couple of people were clearly on the pull, but their advances were playful and harmless, not groping and intimidating.
I had fun.
Last night I ventured out for a boogie once more, but of a slightly different nature. With stockings with a seam up the back, elbow length satin gloves and a mini hat and veil accessorising my look I headed off to the Blitz Party near Old Street. Held in an obscure warehouse-type building just off the main road, armed service uniforms, pencil skirts and tea dresses were the dress code. Straight hair was out and carefully curled hair was in. Moustaches turned up at the end. You get the picture.
So, after a rather tasty Gin Fizz we headed to the dance floor and picked up some swinging moves as we listened to a bit of Vera Lynn and a couple of impressive live acts (it’s easy to pick up – just kind of swing your legs out at the knees and pretend to wash a car). Although the “rations” looked tasty (scotch eggs and ham and cheese bloomer sandwiches) I decided to spend my housekeeping on a selection of cocktails priced at £6 ½ (cute, eh?). A couple of rounds in I was well into my roaring forties groove.
Sadly, some people can’t take their drink. Put it down to the stresses of the war or the lack of nutrition the Blitz’s diet offered (told you I got into it) but the flow of gin, Spitfire and champers was a bit too much for some. Even in their finery people soon forgot the simple etiquette of moving through a crowded enclosed space (gently placing your hand on someone’s shoulder to warn them you are coming through if you were wondering) and elbows became a weapon of choice. One couple managed to ruffle our feathers on more than one occasion, barging into members of my party, spilling my drink down my blouse (honestly!). They then decided to have a spin on the dance floor, which is fair enough, but without any regard for anyone else, bouncing off anyone who happened to get in the way of their moves. When queuing to collect our coats they even had the audacity to try and push in front of us. Luckily my friend Leila was there to push right back past them and put her own elbows to good use (well done Leila!).
Then there were the men. We had concluded upon arrival that there was a very small quantity of single straight men. Not that we were looking, of course. But, as the liquor flowed, hands started to rove. My arse got pinched. Someone gestured squeezing Leila’s boobs. Another chap took a real shine to my other friend Laura and collapsed onto her in some kind of attempt of dance before wandering off into the crowd trying out his pulling technique on other women as he went.
Maybe all those stockings and heels were too much for them. It certainly was for me by the end of the night. Being a tall lady I am not accustomed to heels and my feet were less than grateful for my efforts at wartime glamour. Having said that, getting all dressed up was a nice change, as was the music and dancing.
Shame the crowd who joined me in that function room in Brixton hadn’t been here though. That would have been the icing on the cake. But that would have been having my cake and eating it I suppose.
My quest for the perfect night out in London continues. Watch this space.
Take my last two nights out for example (if only because they happened within a week of each other and make me sound like a social butterfly). Just over a week ago I went to a night called “How Does It Feel to Be Loved” in the function room of a pub in Brixton. Although the music was not quite to my taste (sorry Mr DJ but too much emphasis on obscure 60’s Soul and not enough of the Northern variety – please take note) it was a very pleasant night out. It did feel a bit like a student’s union, but that’s okay, because I used to like going to my student’s union and went to a couple of nights out in such bars when I moved to London. Cheap and cheerful, as was this night at the bargain price of £4 (for members, darling).
What really made it was the crowd. The atmosphere was relaxed. People were laughing and talking to strangers. Men and women danced together, not gyrating their hips together like some bad version of Dirty Dancing, but dancing how they wanted to dance. Okay so a couple of people were clearly on the pull, but their advances were playful and harmless, not groping and intimidating.
I had fun.
Last night I ventured out for a boogie once more, but of a slightly different nature. With stockings with a seam up the back, elbow length satin gloves and a mini hat and veil accessorising my look I headed off to the Blitz Party near Old Street. Held in an obscure warehouse-type building just off the main road, armed service uniforms, pencil skirts and tea dresses were the dress code. Straight hair was out and carefully curled hair was in. Moustaches turned up at the end. You get the picture.
So, after a rather tasty Gin Fizz we headed to the dance floor and picked up some swinging moves as we listened to a bit of Vera Lynn and a couple of impressive live acts (it’s easy to pick up – just kind of swing your legs out at the knees and pretend to wash a car). Although the “rations” looked tasty (scotch eggs and ham and cheese bloomer sandwiches) I decided to spend my housekeeping on a selection of cocktails priced at £6 ½ (cute, eh?). A couple of rounds in I was well into my roaring forties groove.
Sadly, some people can’t take their drink. Put it down to the stresses of the war or the lack of nutrition the Blitz’s diet offered (told you I got into it) but the flow of gin, Spitfire and champers was a bit too much for some. Even in their finery people soon forgot the simple etiquette of moving through a crowded enclosed space (gently placing your hand on someone’s shoulder to warn them you are coming through if you were wondering) and elbows became a weapon of choice. One couple managed to ruffle our feathers on more than one occasion, barging into members of my party, spilling my drink down my blouse (honestly!). They then decided to have a spin on the dance floor, which is fair enough, but without any regard for anyone else, bouncing off anyone who happened to get in the way of their moves. When queuing to collect our coats they even had the audacity to try and push in front of us. Luckily my friend Leila was there to push right back past them and put her own elbows to good use (well done Leila!).
Then there were the men. We had concluded upon arrival that there was a very small quantity of single straight men. Not that we were looking, of course. But, as the liquor flowed, hands started to rove. My arse got pinched. Someone gestured squeezing Leila’s boobs. Another chap took a real shine to my other friend Laura and collapsed onto her in some kind of attempt of dance before wandering off into the crowd trying out his pulling technique on other women as he went.
Maybe all those stockings and heels were too much for them. It certainly was for me by the end of the night. Being a tall lady I am not accustomed to heels and my feet were less than grateful for my efforts at wartime glamour. Having said that, getting all dressed up was a nice change, as was the music and dancing.
Shame the crowd who joined me in that function room in Brixton hadn’t been here though. That would have been the icing on the cake. But that would have been having my cake and eating it I suppose.
My quest for the perfect night out in London continues. Watch this space.
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Constructive Complaining
If you have read this blog more than once, you have probably figured out for yourself that I am quite proficient at moaning. Especially about my beloved London and it’s weird and wonderful cocktail of inhabitants. It is true, I like a good moan and London gives me plenty of opportunity. But since I turned 30 I think this moaning has taken a different guise. Constructive complaining. Let me explain.
A few months ago I had reason to complain to my local council (see “I Know Who I Blame” for a bit of back-story). I first made my complaint in December and was told I would receive a response within 10 days. A fortnight later I called again and left a voice message asking why I had not had a response about my complaint. A few days later I received a letter thanking me for contacting the council via email (!) and that I would receive a response within ten days.
Christmas came and went. I received a letter telling me that my case had been heard in court (despite being informed the court summons had been cancelled due to an agreement for me to pay my arrears by direct debit – long story) and a liability order had been implemented.
I wrote a snotty email.
A few days later I received a letter detailing my contact with the council, but not actually answering my complaint. I phoned the person who had written to me and was told she had been tasked with investigating the situation but not actually dealing with my complaint. I asked her if she could look at the email and respond to my questions.
Eventually, she admitted that mistakes had been made. The council admitted that I had been ill-advised at several points throughout my dealings with them over my council tax and that it was unfortunate my case had been heard in the court where I work despite me being advised this would not happen. She asked what I wanted to happen. I said I wanted an apology.
About a week later I received an email. Attached was a letter apologising for the inconvenience their mistakes had caused me. And offered me compensation of £25.
Result!
My new found hobby doesn’t stop there. A few weeks ago I went to a Blues bar for a friends’ birthday. My friend told me to get there before 8pm to prevent me having to pay. I got there shortly after 7.
“That’s ten pounds please.”
“What? My friend has booked the bar upstairs and told me it was free before 8.”
“That’s not what the manager told me.”
Slightly bewildered and a little pissed off I went up to the party, ten pounds poorer. My friend greeted me with a beer. I told him about the door fee and warned him his other guests might not be best pleased. Confused, he looked at the bar’s programme. Quite clearly it stated that entry was free before 8.
Fired up I went downstairs and showed the programme to the doorman. He shook his head.
“Sorry, I was told by the manager to charge £10 after 7.”
“But it’s here in black and white.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, can I speak to the manager?”
As I waited for him to return with the man in charge, a handful of other revellers arrived.
“That’s ten pounds please.”
“But the website says it’s free before 8.”
“Yeah my friend told me that too.”
Naturally I had to intervene and told them about my plight. Before long I had a throng of about half a dozen complainants on my side. When the door man returned and saw our protest his face fell.
“I can’t find the manager.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” I was feeling a bit cocky with a huddle of supporters behind me.
“Yeah, what are you going to do?” someone piped up behind me.
The doorman sighed. “Well, I guess I have to let you in for free.”
Elated, I held out my hand for my reimbursement and headed up to the bar for a well-earned Whiskey Sour.
The next day I was at the British Film Institute with some friends. I enthused about my new-found hobby with real passion. Then, digging into our posh dried beany bar snacks, I came across a shard of plastic.
I was in my element. “Let me handle this ladies.
Excuse me! I found this piece of plastic in our food.” I gave the bar man a knowing look. “I could have eaten it.”
The bar man took the cup of dehydrated pulses apologetically.
“I wonder what we will get for free for that one.” I was almost giddy with anticipation.
A few minutes later the barman returned. With a fresh cup of beans. No freebie or reimbursement, just more beans. I was a little disappointed.
But don’t despair reader. I am not going to give up my right to complain. Only two days ago I filled in a complaint form after being stranded just outside Stevenage on an over-crowded train for over four hours (it made page 9 of the Evening Standard on Monday if you are interested). And today...I got my letter of apology from the council. Along with a check for 25 pounds.
You see; constructive complaining pays. Give it a go. Who knows what you might get out of it.
A few months ago I had reason to complain to my local council (see “I Know Who I Blame” for a bit of back-story). I first made my complaint in December and was told I would receive a response within 10 days. A fortnight later I called again and left a voice message asking why I had not had a response about my complaint. A few days later I received a letter thanking me for contacting the council via email (!) and that I would receive a response within ten days.
Christmas came and went. I received a letter telling me that my case had been heard in court (despite being informed the court summons had been cancelled due to an agreement for me to pay my arrears by direct debit – long story) and a liability order had been implemented.
I wrote a snotty email.
A few days later I received a letter detailing my contact with the council, but not actually answering my complaint. I phoned the person who had written to me and was told she had been tasked with investigating the situation but not actually dealing with my complaint. I asked her if she could look at the email and respond to my questions.
Eventually, she admitted that mistakes had been made. The council admitted that I had been ill-advised at several points throughout my dealings with them over my council tax and that it was unfortunate my case had been heard in the court where I work despite me being advised this would not happen. She asked what I wanted to happen. I said I wanted an apology.
About a week later I received an email. Attached was a letter apologising for the inconvenience their mistakes had caused me. And offered me compensation of £25.
Result!
My new found hobby doesn’t stop there. A few weeks ago I went to a Blues bar for a friends’ birthday. My friend told me to get there before 8pm to prevent me having to pay. I got there shortly after 7.
“That’s ten pounds please.”
“What? My friend has booked the bar upstairs and told me it was free before 8.”
“That’s not what the manager told me.”
Slightly bewildered and a little pissed off I went up to the party, ten pounds poorer. My friend greeted me with a beer. I told him about the door fee and warned him his other guests might not be best pleased. Confused, he looked at the bar’s programme. Quite clearly it stated that entry was free before 8.
Fired up I went downstairs and showed the programme to the doorman. He shook his head.
“Sorry, I was told by the manager to charge £10 after 7.”
“But it’s here in black and white.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“Well, can I speak to the manager?”
As I waited for him to return with the man in charge, a handful of other revellers arrived.
“That’s ten pounds please.”
“But the website says it’s free before 8.”
“Yeah my friend told me that too.”
Naturally I had to intervene and told them about my plight. Before long I had a throng of about half a dozen complainants on my side. When the door man returned and saw our protest his face fell.
“I can’t find the manager.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” I was feeling a bit cocky with a huddle of supporters behind me.
“Yeah, what are you going to do?” someone piped up behind me.
The doorman sighed. “Well, I guess I have to let you in for free.”
Elated, I held out my hand for my reimbursement and headed up to the bar for a well-earned Whiskey Sour.
The next day I was at the British Film Institute with some friends. I enthused about my new-found hobby with real passion. Then, digging into our posh dried beany bar snacks, I came across a shard of plastic.
I was in my element. “Let me handle this ladies.
Excuse me! I found this piece of plastic in our food.” I gave the bar man a knowing look. “I could have eaten it.”
The bar man took the cup of dehydrated pulses apologetically.
“I wonder what we will get for free for that one.” I was almost giddy with anticipation.
A few minutes later the barman returned. With a fresh cup of beans. No freebie or reimbursement, just more beans. I was a little disappointed.
But don’t despair reader. I am not going to give up my right to complain. Only two days ago I filled in a complaint form after being stranded just outside Stevenage on an over-crowded train for over four hours (it made page 9 of the Evening Standard on Monday if you are interested). And today...I got my letter of apology from the council. Along with a check for 25 pounds.
You see; constructive complaining pays. Give it a go. Who knows what you might get out of it.
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