Floating down to Camelot

How's this for a piece of silliness? Two weeks ago, I posted an anniversary card to my parents. Ten days later, it still hadn't arrived. 11 days after I posted it, they got a note through the door saying that the postman had tried to deliver something to their house, but had had to take it away again since there was inadequate postage on it. They were told to go to the main sorting office, 8 miles away, to collect it.

At great personal cost – money, time, and threats to life and limb* - my parents went into town to get the mystery package. They were told that the postage on it was short by 6p, but they had pay an additional one pound on top of this. Even then they didn't get the letter. The post office person carefully counted out 6 1p stamps, and put them on the letter, being careful to hide it from my parents so they couldn't see what it was. They were then told to go home; the letter would be put in the post as normal and would arrive in due course. Three days later – i.e. two postal days, and one Sunday - it did. It was indeed my card.

6p appears to be the difference between a first class normal letter, and a second class large letter, so I assume that the card was just a bit too big to go by normal letter rate. To be honest, I'd totally forgotten the existence of the new big latter rate, but even if I'd remember, I think I'd have assumed the card was small enough and thin enough to pass as normal. Still, that's fair enough. What is annoying, though, is the 11 days it took the Post Office to tell my parents about it, and their refusal to hand it over.

* Okay, so they got on the bus that stops right outside their front door, paid nothing, since they're over 60, and had a trouble-free bus journey over the delightful scenery of Cleeve Hill, but why let the truth spoil a good story? In my version, they fought lions en route, and spent all their hard-won savings on hiring horses. I bet the real version of most great sagas is actually fairly prosaic. That Beowulf, you know… Mildly bruised a baby squirrel, causing its mother to throw a nut at his head… And as for King Arthur… Found a rusty penknife in a puddle, and before you know it, the bards are hailing him as king.

Umbrellas need to be banned. What with the smoking ban coming in tomorrow, and a shiny new prime minister eager to make his mark, I think the time has never been better to lobby for this. Umbrellas should be banned in public. (People can, of course, use them in the privacy of their own home.)

Think of the health benefits! Never more will people return from shopping trips minus their eyes. Never more will people suffer bad backs and bad necks from desperately twisting their upper body out of the way of someone else's badly-wielded umbrella. Never more will people get cold and drenched when other people shake their umbrellas dry all over them. Never more will people fork out money for some outdoor spectator event, only to find their view completely blocked by the umbrellas of the people on the front row. Even the poor enslaved Umbrellas Users will benefit, since they will learn the rain-resistant qualities of waterproofs and hoods. Never more will they wrench muscles as their umbrellas catches the wind and tries to escape to freedom. Relationships will benefit, since they will no longer be plagued with the "two people, one umbrella" dilemma. It's even good for the environment, as the countryside is cleared of the shattered remains of skeletal umbrellas, torn apart by the wind.

I am aware that there are probably Umbrella Users on my friends list, so I will admit that some Users are responsible ones who commit none of the above evils. Unfortunately, they appear to be in the minority. I am actually quite prepared to accept something less than a total ban, but one has to start by lobbying for the most extreme result, so one can make concessions later. I am prepared to accept the following measures:

- All aspiring Umbrella Users must undertake a course of training in responsible umbrella use, so they wield them with consideration for others.
- The Umbrella Code is to be written and enforced. Umbrella Wardens fine people who breach it - e.g. by meandering along a busy road with their over-large umbrella lurching around all over the place.
- Local Councils are given the power to create Umbrella Free Zones - in narrow lanes, for example, at outdoor performances, or in ruined castles with narrow windy passageways.
- A size limit is imposed on umbrellas.
- Don't drink and umbrella!

After the smoking ban has been achieved, I hope as many people as possible in the country will join me in campaigning against this most terrible of social evils: the umbrella!

Grr! I think Father's Day cards are even more mired in stereotypical images than Mother's Day cards. Although my Mum would rather stand on one leg up a ladder and attack a shrub with a hatchet, than elegantly dead-head roses, at least a flower design can be fairly neutral. However, it doesn't seem to have crossed the minds of the card manufacturers that Dads can be anything other than sports-loving, heavy-drinking, TV-watching slobs.

...are annoying. There you are, minding your own business on your day off, when suddenly a strange man appears at the upstairs window, sending you scurrying with a squeal, desperately trying to avoid tripping over terrified cats. You then realise that you've spent all your money on whisky and beer cider and CDs, so spend the next ten minutes rushing around to all your husband's habitual change-dumping grounds, and laboriously assemble a coin skycraper that adds up to the right amount. You try to placate some sulky cats, and go cower behind a closed curtain and do some LJ, while alien figures thump at the windows, their dark shapes monstrous in shadow and silhouette. And what do the window cleaners do? Drive away, leaving a little note through the door, saying "You were out when we called." Hmm... I'd have thought the car in the drive would have been a clue, not the mention all the open windows, the full mug of coffee near the kitchen window, folk music being played a little too loudly, and, indeed, the fact that they actually saw me.

I promised myself not to post anything else this week, but this has annoyed me today. Our local paper has just run a "Child of the Year" competition, results announced today. Parents sent in posed portraits of their child (all taken by the same photographer), and they were printed in a special supplement. All that was shown was the photo and the child's name. And, on that basis, readers were invited to vote for the "best child" in each age group.

The paper says it was a "huge success", with nearly 1500 people voting - i.e. 1% of the population, and fewer than four votes were child (parents, grandpapents, auntie..?) The list of winners even listed the number of votes, so the winning over 8 now knows that 23 fewer people liked them than liked the winning 5 - 8. And so on.

We have a carnival in every town here, and hundreds of little girls queue up to enter the competitions to choose carnival princesses and carnival queens. However, at least in these they're given a chance to show something of their personality. A still photo is a beauty contest, plain and simple. Either that, or it's a test of how many people your parents know. This latter reason I can at least tolerate. I find it far more disturbing to think that total strangers are poring over pages of photos of children they don't know and picking out the "best" one.

What sort of message is this giving to children? That worth is judged purely by looks. Babies who don't win don't know anything about it, but there were children up to 11 or 12 in this competition. I'm certainly not against having winners and losers in children's competitions, but at least have it relate to something the child does, not just to how they look. How many little girls have had their confidence knocked by having been judged wanting?

Personally, I found the whole thing very objectionable and quite disturbing. However, I'm not a parent. Maybe parents here will tell me I'm missing the point.

Sorry. I've been quite ranty this week, and also quite talkative. But here goes...

( Why do they make it so HARD to book a hotel online? )

After four man hours of work last night we managed to book 5 out of the 9 nights, a flight, and a car. We then retreated, battered and bruised. The battle will be rejoined today.

I should also note that this was the first Friday night in aeons that we didn't have anything to drink. I feel quite proud of myself, though I'm aware that this fact makes me seen very bad.

Today we need to tidy the house and make it fit for polite company next weekend. Not that we're getting any... ;-)

I was listening to a radio phone-in in the car earlier, prompted by Prince Charles allegedly saying that Mcdonalds should be banned because it leads to obesity*. A lot of people were phoning in to agree, some of them getting really heated. This really annoyed me. It all seems part of the modern trend not to take responsibility for your own actions. It's always someone else's fault. ( More... )

1. When a road is closed, why do They then put roadworks on all the possible alternative routes?

2. Why is it that you can bump yourself really hard, so it really, really hurts, but end up with no bruise whatsoever, so therefore get no sympathy? However, at other times you get a wonderful bruise, despite not remembering what you bumped into, and the bruise not hurting. This is Not Fair.

3. Why is it ten times easier to get 30 3 year olds to settle down to story-telling, than it is to get 30 grown-ups to settle down to story-telling training?

4. Why do I always remember things I want to email/post to LJ/write down/tell someone about when I'm driving or in the shower, but always forget them as soon as I'm sitting down by my computer?

Have any of the "hers" around here ever seen anything in the "For Her" section of a Christmas gift catalogue that they would actually want for Christmas? Am I totally out of synch with British womanhood in not longing for moisturiser or bubble bath or curling tongs? At least the men are allowed gadgets and toys, as well as aftershave. I saw one place that was advertising a gift of a magazine subscriptions, and the "for her" selection was entirely women's magazines, while the men were allowed computer games, films, cameras etc. Men are allowed to be interested in things and to do things. Women are only allowed to be interested in beauty and celebrity gossip. It is most annoying. Does it reflect reality, I wonder? I doubt it.

Though speaking of hims, a certain him I know has given me his Christmas list. It includes a full set of fourteenth century armour, an anvil (small), a halberd, a spear things, longsword wasters, and a gambeson. Aftershave would be easier to obtain.

This morning, I was at a meeting in Southampton. After it had finished, I popped into the food court of the big shopping centre to grab some lunch. I went to a sandwich place, where I was confronted with a long counter, with a member of staff at each end, each with a small queue of customers. Being a law-abiding person, I looked round for any clues as to which end I was supposed to queue at. When I saw none, I chose one end at random. I queued, got to the front, said what I wanted, paid for it, and moved to one side to wait for it to come.

I waited, and waited, and waited. Eventually, the chap said something to me, but he had such a strong foreign accent I couldn't tell what he was saying. I asked him to repeat it, but I still couldn't tell what he was saying. Embarrassed, I asked again... and finally worked out he was asking me if I'd ordered at the other end. Puzzled, I said that no, I'd ordered from him. He sighed, and told me that I should have ordered at the other end, then come and paid him. He sent me to the other end to order, then told me to come back. "Next time order at the other end," he told me sternly. "Next time?" I thought. "You can bet there won't be a next time."

( Customer care rant - longer than it should be )

I read reading a children's book magazine today, and the editorial was talking about the large ongoing debate about "the death of childhood" (which was kicked off in part by this book,Toxic Childhood, which I have to admit I haven't read.) Towards the end of the editorial, it said something along the lines of "perhaps a too-rushed-through childhood is responsible for the irritating sight of adults in their twenties reading children's books."

( Excuse me? Irritating? )

Why is it so totally impossible to get the local press to tell you if they plan to come to an event, or not? You send out the press release, they receive it... and then you wait. You start the event. All the time, you have one eye on the door, in a mix of nervousness, resignation, and hope. Will they come? Do you dare tell the people at the event that the press might be coming? The minutes tick by. The event finishes. People go home. Okay, then. Another one they've decided not to bother coming to. ( Press-related grumbles )

To add insult to injury, on the way back from today's failed appearance by the press, I stopped off to buy lunch. I told them not to bother with a bag, and walked out with some lunch items balanced on the local paper. As I reached my car, a gust of wind took the paper, and hurled all my lunch into the air. It landed in one large puddle, and my car keys landed in another. I had to wade into the puddles to get them out, getting my feet and the hem of my (long) skirt drenched in the process. By then I was so confused and flustered that I tried to get into the wrong car.

Stupid newspaper. *grumbles*

I watched "Grease" last night for the first time ever. I'd watched bits and pieces before, and was familiar with the story and most of the songs, but I had never seen it right through.

The ending really bothers me.( On Grease, and being cool )

I have just got home from another day of heaving huge boxes of books, demolishing shelves, carrying ginormous metal shelf uprights around, building shelves again, moving more boxes of books etc. etc. I am hot, filthy and exhausted. I can hardly stand. I can't walk without groaning. I can't bend down. I have blisters on my hands and feet, and scratches and bruises everywhere.

( And they say that being a librarian is quiet and boring )

In this day and age, how on earth can any pub or restaurant not have a website? I've just been adding the 2006 programme to the Men of Wight's website (since Pellinor is still at work, and still at work for the foreseeable future, so I might as well save him a job for the weekend.) About half the pubs don't have a website - and this is including some very big, food-oriented pubs that draw heavily on tourist trade.

It's annoying, since I have to waste time searching for it, just in case. But it's also very stupid. When we want to go out for a special dinner, the choice always come down to a nice restaurant in Cowes, and a nice one that we used go to when we lived in Newport. The one in Cowes has a small menu that changes every few months, but it puts the menu on its website. The one in Newport doesn't have a website at all.

Guess which one we've been to every single time.

EDIT: Irelevant addition: I just switched on TV and there was Julian Clary, saying, in his usual camp fashion, "Join me for "Have I got news for you" at 9, especially if you live on the Isle of Wight." I think I should worry.

Woo-hoo! A four day weekend, with six gallons of...er... interesting and character-developing peach wine almost ready to drink, and a new TV arriving tomorrow. But, before that good cheer, a little moaning.

Now, I know that more men than women play computer games, but I'm sure there's also a goodly amount of female gamers out there. So why, then, do games give us female players so little?

I'm not demanding games about knitting or cooing at babies (though I did once write a flower-picking game on my Dad's VIC-20 when I was about 12). I don't want to gain experience points by counselling an NPC through a messy divorce, or to engage in lengthy dialogues about make-up. I'm quite happy with smitin' evil, slaying monsters and blowing people's heads off, thank you very much.

But I want pretty men. ( Give me my pretty men! )

Today I tackled the annual ordeal called "buying a Mother's Day card - preferably one that says "Mothering Sunday" on it, if at all possible." It is exceeded in awfulness only by its close relation, "buying a Father's Day card."

I hate the fact that card manufacturers cannot think beyond stereotypes. They cannot conceive of a mother who doesn't wear pink, flutter around girlishly, or potter in a lady-like fashion in the garden, elegantly dead-heading flowers. They cannot conceive of a father who doesn't spend their whole day playing golf, drinking beer, and watching football on TV.

I think there is barely one card in 100 that I feel I could give to my parents. While I don't expect to find cards reflecting their current enthusiasms (Victorian social history, and philosophy, amongst others) I wish there were more neutral cards designed for the majority (I hope) of mothers and fathers who are humans first and foremost, with many and varied interests, rather than walking stereotypes.

I'm never really much held with St Valentine's Day, but today was just the right day for it. I drove out to West Wight beneath a lovely blue sky, and it was one of those journeys that reminds me that I do live on a very lovely island, after all. I then did a storytime in a library that was so warm the windows were opened, and birds were singing merrily outside. When I left, I noticed that crocuses and snowdrops had appeared as if from nowhere, and were rampaging prettily across the lawn. It's like a different season from last week, and it's hard to believe that only five days ago I was scraping ice off the car.

Now, my Freedom of Information Act training tells me that I should never mix two subject in one email, since that will make things harder if someone puts in a FOI request in five years' time, but I don't really think this is likely, so... ( Miscellaneous things )

EDIT: Pellinor's "Valentine's card from his other woman" turned out to be a Valentine's Day themed advert for Sky TV, cunningly hidden in a hand-written envelope with a stamp on. I think lonely people might be driven to suicide by an advert like that. First the hope... then the crashing disappointment.

Vote for Morris Dancing as an English Icon!

I get really cross about the fact that lots of English people will pay good money to watch a touristy folk dance show when on holiday in Spain, or wherever. They come back from holiday to exotic climes talking about all the lovely local tradition they saw. They go on holiday to Ireland and say how wonderful it is that there's this vibrant folk culture on the pubs. I don't mind at all that they do these things. What I do mind is that they do these things, yet still laugh at and deride our own native tradition.

No country in the world takes worse care of their folk tradition that we do. The stupid, idiotic Licencing Act is doing its utmost to wipe out Mummers' Plays and carol singing and folk singing in pubs - and live music of any kind. (And, yes, "they" say that it won't be used this way, but it already has been.) Morris dancing is a "sad" and a joke. Folk singers are bearded chaps with their fingers in their ears, droning tuneless nonsense.

And then there are all those many many films and TV programmes that want a vaguely folky bit of background music to a traditional English scene, and use Irish music... I've argued with several customers in the library who have declared that "England doesn't have any folk songs"...

I can't remember exactly what Jeremy Paxman said in his book about the English, but it was something like, "England doesn't have any tradition of folk dance. Well, except for Morris dancing, which is sad and pathetic so I won't count it."

When we danced at a folk dance festival in Germany, we were the star of the show. All the other European countries were dancing fairly similar dances - mostly mixed couples doing circle dances. We thumped each other with sticks! We had bells on our feet! They came in their dozens to give us schnappes and tell us how wonderful we were. They valued us.

Why can't the English?

Dear Mr Work Computer,

A few hours ago, you told me you had updates to install. You told me you would need to restart the computer to do so. "Restart now, or restart later?" you asked. Since I was then racing against time to get a few million project books discharged, I said "restart later."

However, Mr Work Computer, I think you misunderstand the meaning of "restart later." It means "I will restart you, okay, but only when I'm ready, because I've got something I really need to get on with right now." It doesn't mean, "please flash a message up every two minutes reminding me about it.

Now, I hate to hurt anyone's self-esteem, but, really, you are the slowest and most pathetic computer in the entire world. "Restart now" ought to mean "stop and save your work, and resume it happily two minutes later, with a newly-updated computer." However, in your case, it means, "twiddle your thumbs for 20 minutes while your computer takes longer to restart than any computer in existence ought to take." If you bucked up your ideas, I might be more receptive to this "restart now" command, but since you're pathetic, I will ignore you, snarl at you... and probably end the day by throwing you out of the window.

Yours,

Annoyed of Insula Vectis

P.S. Three "do you want to restart your computer?" messages flashed up during the typing of this letter